Bro! Tell me we still know how to speak of kings! In the old

days,

  everyone knew what men were: brave, bold, glory-bound. Only

  stories now, but I’ll sound the Spear-Danes’ song, hoarded for

hungry times.

  Their first father was a foundling: Scyld Scefing.

  He spent his youth fists up, browbeating every barstool-brother,

  bonfiring his enemies. That man began in the waves, a baby in

a basket,

  but he bootstrapped his way into a kingdom, trading loneliness

  for luxury. Whether they thought kneeling necessary or no,

  everyone from head to tail of the whale-road bent down:

10     There’s a king, there’s his crown!

  That was a good king.

  Later, God sent Scyld a son, a wolf cub,

  further proof of manhood. Being God, He knew

  how the Spear-Danes had suffered, the misery

  they’d mangled through, leaderless, long years of loss,

  so the Life-lord, that Almighty Big Boss, birthed them

  an Earth-shaker. Beow’s name kissed legions of lips

  by the time he was half-grown, but his own father

  was still breathing. We all know a boy can’t daddy

20     until his daddy’s dead. A smart son gives

  gifts to his father’s friends in peacetime.

  When war woos him, as war will,

  he’ll need those troops to follow the leader.

  Privilege is the way men prime power,

  the world over.

  Scyld was iron until the end. When he died,

  his warriors executed his final orders.

  They swaddled their king of rings and did just

  as the Dane had demanded, back when mind

30     and meter could merge in his mouth.

  They bore him to the harbor, and into the bosom

  of a ship, that father they’d followed, that man

  they’d adored. She was anchored and eager

  to embark, an ice maiden built to bear

  the weight of a prince. They laid him

  by the mast, packed tight in his treasure-trove,

  bright swords, war-weeds, his lap holding a hoard

  of flood-tithes, each fare-coin placed by a loyal man.

  He who pays the piper calls the tune.

40     His shroud shone, ringed in runes, sun-stitched.

  I’ve never heard of any ship so heavy, nor corpse

  so rich. Scyld came into the world unfavored;

  his men weighted him as well as the strangers had,

  who’d once warped him to the waves’ weft.

  Even ghosts must be fitted to fight.

  The war-band flew a golden flag over their main man;

  the salt sea saluted him, so too the storms,

  and Scyld’s soldiers got drunk instead of crying.

  They mourned the way men do. No man knows,

50     not me, not you, who hauled Scyld’s hoard to shore,

  but the poor are plentiful, and somebody got lucky.

  Finally, Beow rolled into righteous rule,

  daddying for decades after his own daddy died.

  At last, though, it was his turn for erasure:

  his son, the Halfdane, ran roughshod, smothering

  his father’s story with his own. He rose in the realm

  and became a famous warlord, fighting ferociously

  dawn to dusk, fathering his own horde of four,

  heirs marching into the world in this order: Heorogar,

60     Hrothgar, Halga, and I heard he hand-clasped his

daughter

  (her name’s a blur) to Onela. Tender, she rendered that

battle-Swede

  happy in fucking, where before he’d only been happy in fighting.

  War was the wife Hrothgar wed first. Battles won,

  treasures taken. Admirers and kin heard of his fight-fortune,

  and flanked him in force. Strong boys grow into stronger men,

  and when Hrothgar had an army, his hopes turned to a hall

  to home them—a house to espouse his faithful.

  More than just a mead-hall, a world’s wonder,

  eighth of seven. When it was done, he swore,

70     he’d load-lighten, unhand everything he’d won,

  worn, and owned, pass to his posse all God’s gifts,

  save lives and land. He’d keep the kingdom, of course.

  He gave far-reaching orders: carpets, carpentry, walls and gables,

  tables for seating a clan, rare gifts plated like rare meat,

  all for his men. So it rose: a greater hall than any other!

  Hrothgar filled it, blood-brother by blood-brother,

  and named it Heorot. His words were heard and heralded,

  and yes, yes, bro! The man was more than just talk:

  he gave good gifts. His war-wedded wore kings’ rings,

80     and drank their leader’s mead. Nightly, he feted his fight-family

  with fortunes. The hall loomed, golden towers antler-tipped;

  it was asking for burning, but that hadn’t happened yet.

  You know how it is: every castle wants invading, and every family

  has enemies born within it. Old grudges recrudesce.

  Speaking of grudges: out there in the dark, one waited.

  He listened, holding himself hard to home,

  but he’d been lonely too long, brotherless,

  sludge-stranded. Now he heard and endured

  the din of drinkers. Their poetry poisoned his peace.

90     Every night, turmoil: raucous laughter from Heorot,

  howling of harps, squawking of scops.

  Men recounting the history of men like them.

  The Almighty made Earth for us, they sang.

  Sun and moon for our (de)light,

   fens full of creatures for our feasting,

  meres to quench our thirst.

  Heorot’s hall-dwellers caroused by candlelight,

  stumbling to sleep with the sunrise, replete,

  lambs bleating comfort, ease-pleased,

100    until the night wakefulness moved their watcher to wrath.

  Grendel was the name of this woe-walker,

  Unlucky, fucked by Fate. He’d been

  living rough for years, ruling the wild:

  the mere, the fen, and the fastness,

  his kingdom. His creation was cursed

  under the line of Cain, the kin-killer.

  The Lord, long ago, had taken Abel’s side.

  Though none of that was Grendel’s doing,

  he’d descended from bloodstains.

110    From Cain had come a cruel kind,

  seen by some as shadow-stalked: monsters,

  elves, giants who’d ground against God,

  and for that, been banished.

  Under a new moon, Grendel set out

  to see what horde haunted this hall.

  He found the Ring-Danes drunk,

  douse-downed, making beds of benches.

  They were mead-medicated, untroubled

  by pain, their sleep untainted by sorrow.

120    Grendel hurt, and so he hunted. This stranger

  taught the Danes about time. He struck, seized

  thirty dreaming men, and hied himself home,

  bludgeoning his burden as he bounded, for the Danes

  had slept sweetly in a world that had woken him,

  benefited from bounty, even as they’d broken him.

  When golden teeth tasted the sky,

  Grendel’s silent skill was seen. His kills—

  grim crimson spilt on banquet-boards.

  The war-horde wailed at the spoiling of their sleep,

130    at the depths they’d dived in darkness, while their enemy ate.

  A mournful morning. Their leader sat at his plate, old overnight,

  impotent at this ingress. The band tracked the invader, but not

to his lair.

  They had prayers to call out, and pains to bear.

  Grendel did not stay himself from slaughter. The next night

  a second slaying, and then another, his rope played out and

  rotted through, a cursed course plotted without mercy,

  and corse after corse cold in his keep. Bro, it was easy

  after that to count the weepers: men fleeing to cotes

  beneath the king’s wings. You’d have to have been a fool to miss

140    the malice of the Hell-dweller, now hall-dwelling. Those who

lived, left—

  or locked themselves in ladies’ lodgings, far from fault lines.

  Those who stayed? Slain.

  For twelve snow-seasons, Grendel reigned over evening.

  Hrothgar suffered, Heorot buffeted, no hero to hold it.

  Every outsider talked shit, telling of legends and losses.

  Hrothgar’s hall became a morgue, dark marks on

floorboards.

  No songs, no scops, no searing meat, no blazing fire.

  And Grendel, incomplete, raided relentlessly.

  Dude, this was what they call a blood feud, a war

150    that tore a hole through the hearts of the Danes.

  Grendel was broken, and would not brook peace,

  desist in dealing deaths, or die himself.

  He had no use for stealth—he came near-nightly,

  and never negotiated. The old counselors knew better

  than to expect a settlement in silver from him.

  Ringless, Grendel’s fingers, kingless,

  his country. Be it wizened vizier or beardless boy,

  he hunted them across foggy moors, an owl

  mist-diving for mice, grist-grinding their tails

160    in his teeth. A hellion’s home is anywhere

  good men fear to tread; who knows the dread this

  marauder mapped?

  Grendel, enemy to everyone, waged his war

  without an army, lonesome as he lapped

  the luxurious lengths of Heorot. He howl-haunted

  the hall at night, the gold-gifter’s throne throwing

  shade at him, his soul burning with dark flame.

  He couldn’t touch the treasure, or tame

  his yearning, for he’d been spurned by God.

170    Times were hard for the prince of the Scyldings, too,

  heart-shattered, battered spirit spent.

  Men came to advise, bringing pithy plots

  and plans to arrest Hrothgar’s awful guest.

  They bent themselves to idols, and offered up

  their own spells, that a soul-slayer might suddenly

  show up and save them. That was their nature,

  these heathens, hoping at the wrong heavens,

  remembering Hell, but nothing else.

  They knew no true Lord, no God, no Master.

180    They, too, were cursed, yet thought themselves clear.

  Bro, lemme say how fucked they were,

  in times of worst woe throwing themselves

  on luck rather than on faith, fire-walkers

  swearing their feet uncharred, while

  smoke-stepping. Why not face

  the Boss, and at death seek

  salves, not scars?

  So it went for years, the Hell-sent raider harrowing

  the Halfdane’s son, who sat in silence, brooding

190    over unhatched hopes, while in the dark his

  people shuddered, salt-scourged by weeping,

  by nights spent waking instead of sleeping.

  News went global. In Geatland, Hygelac’s right-hand man

  heard about Grendel. Bro, here was a warrior

  like no other: massive, mighty, born of noble

  blood. He called for a ship to be readied

  for his band, and boasted he’d try his teeth on this tale,

  sail in as a savior over the swan-road, seek that king

  and lend a hand as defender. His elders

200    understood his quest, and though he was dear to them,

  they knew better than to spear him with speeches.

  They augured the omens—ooh!—and ushered him onward.

  He found fourteen fists for hire, the boldest men

  of the Geats, and enlisted them as fighters.

  He, as their captain, went aboard to pilot

  the vessel, with sea-skill, through

  keen currents and mean depths.

  Soon it was time to depart:

  the boat’s belly was wet,

210    and beneath the land-locks

  these warriors met, cheering,

  bringing battle-gear into her bosom.

  As sand spit and surf sang, they pushed off

  and sent themselves to sea, made men.

  The wind sent them surging.

  With a foam-feathered throat,

  their bird flew free, sailing with certainty

  over salt waters. On the second day,

  she sought a shore, and the men saw cliffs,

220    crags uplifting from the ocean:

  the end of the voyage. Overboard

  the Geats leapt, shifting from sailors to soldiers,

  the moment their soles touched solid earth.

  Their weapons rattled as they moored the boat,

  their mail unveiled in sunlight.

  They thanked God for easy passage

  and sweet seas.

  Far above them, the Scylding’s watchman

  waited. It was his duty to keep

230    these cliffs unclimbed. When his gaze hit

  gleam: swords and shields glittering

  across the gangplank, passing without permission,

  Hrothgar’s man set out for the sand on horseback,

  straight spear in hand, to stand

  formally and question them:

  “How dare you come to Denmark

  costumed for war? Chain mail and swords?!

  There’s a dress code! You’re denied.

  I’m the Danes’ doorman; this is my lord’s door.

240    Who are you that you dare steer your ship

  for our shore? I’m the watcher of these waters,

  have been for years, and it’s my duty to scan the sea

  for shield-bearing dangers to Danes. I’ve never seen

  any force come so confidently over swells, certain of welcome,

  no welcome won. Did you send word? No! Were you invited?

  No! You’re not on the guest list. And, also, who’s the giant?

  What weapons does he hold? Oh, hell no.

  He’s no small-time hall-soldier, but noble!

  Look at his armor! I’m done here!

250    Spies, state your secrets, or be denounced.

  Who are you, what’s your business,

  where’d you come from?

  I’ll ask one more time.

  You’re not coming past this cliff.

  Answer now, or bounce.

  You, men: Who? Where? Why?”

  Their leader unlocked his word-hoard.

  He was the senior soldier, so he spat certainty:

  “We are Geats, born and bred, bound

260    to Hygelac. My father was Ecgtheow.

  No doubt you’ve heard of him. He was famous.

  He lived through winters that would’ve

  pressed the life from a lesser, and though

  he’s long since left us, everyone, the world over,

  knows my daddy’s name. We come in peace,

  looking for your lord and land-shield,

  the son of the Halfdane. Kindly give us

  directions and we’ll get gone.

  We’re here to offer ourselves up

270    to the Dane’s lord, and our plans

  are open, no secrets from you.

  Is it true that something savage

  walks at night? We’ve heard the stories,

  that misery stalks and rages here,

  that good men are endangered here,

  by a stranger in this country.

  We come to counsel your king

  on how to cleave his reaver,

  and court calm. If there’s respite

280    to be had, I’m the lad to bring it.

  Otherwise, Hrothgar will be grieving

  and desperate as long as his

  hall hangs—I see it there—

  at the horizon.”

  The watchman was unmoved, his authority innate.

  He sat tall on horseback. “I know

  the difference between words and deeds,

  as anyone with half a brain does.

  Thus far, I’ll endorse your scheme:

290    you seem a troop true to my lord.

  The rest is in the proving.

  Come, then, bring your battle-gear.

  I’ll lead you to my leader,

  and send my guards to circle

  your new-tarred ship on the sandbar,

  until it’s time for her to rise ring-prowed

  over this rolling road and be boarded again

  by whichever of you—if any?—

  survive the sword-storm you’ve sought.”

300    Off they went, agreed, leaving

  their own mount, that wide wave-rover,

  hitched to rope and anchor.

  Boars bristled from their cheek-shields,

  gold forced into fierce forms by fire.

  The watchman led them toward their war.

  Fifteen men heeded him and marched

  with speed, until the timbered hall

  was before them, shimmering, golden,

  the structure best known under the sun and stars

310    to every citizen of Earth.

  This was a place real men could be rebirthed,

  and their guide pointed the path to it,

  then turned tail, saying:

  “I’ve been away from my sea-view too long.

  May the Father leave you living.

  For me, I return to my ocean-post,

  to scan the shore for

  other enemies.”

  The road was stone-cobbled, and kept them

320    coming correct, a straight line of marchers,

  war-garb gleaming, chains linked by hardened hands,

  their armor ringing, loud as any hall-bell. By the time

  they arrived in Heorot, dressed for demons,

  they were sagging, sea-stung. They stacked shields,

  wood-weathered, against the walls, then sat down

  on benches, their metal making music. Their spears,

  they stood like sleeping soldiers, tall but tilting,

  gray ash, a death-grove. Each maker of armor-din

  was twinned to his weapon. A man of Hrothgar’s

330    company, admiring them, inquired:

  “What kingdom sent you here, boys, with your crests

  and shields, your gilt helmets and gray-clothed

  chests, your sharpened spears? I’m Hrothgar’s

  herald and officer, and in all my years

  I’ve never seen such an impressive

  assembly of outlanders. You’ve too much style

  to be exiles, so I expect you must be

  heroes, sent to Hrothgar?”

  The man—we know him, his name means nerve—

340    the leader of the Geats, hard-core in his helmet,

  spoke their mission succinctly:

  “We’re Hygelac’s reserve, trained

  and ready. Beowulf’s my name.

  If the Halfdane’s son, your leader and lord,

  will allow me to come to him,

  I’ll explain my errand in a few words.”

  Wulfgar, a Wendel warrior, renowned and warranted

  for wisdom and for the tempered edge of his nature,

  replied: “I’ll ferry your request to our king

350    and ring-giver, Lord of the Scyldings,

  and see what, if anything, he offers

  in response. I’ll return with his answer

  as quickly as he

  gives it me.”

  He went with haste to Hrothgar’s throne.

  The old man was gray, huddled in pain

  with his retainers. Bold Wulfgar

  stood submissive at his shoulder—he knew the score.

  He whispered the matter to his lord:

360    “Geatlanders have come ashore, sea-sullied

  from their long sail. Their captain and compeller

  is called Beowulf, and he petitions for words

  with you. Hrothgar, most generous,

  don’t deny them. They’re well-dressed,

  thus well-born, and thus worthy.

  And the man who led them here—

  he looks so right! His chest, broad in girth,

  his armor blazing, bright!

  Blatantly of noble birth.”

370    Hrothgar, the Scyldings’ helm, lifted his head:

  “Beowulf? I knew him when he was a boy, and

  I knew his daddy, too, Ecgtheow, with whom

  Hrethel the Geat bedded his daughter down.

  Their son and heir is here to bring health to me!

  A crew of mine once crossed to Geatland

  with gifts from me to his father, and they

  brought back a cargo of stories.

  Ecgtheow’s boy, they said, had a handgrip

  as strong as that of thirty men! As for his band

380    of Geats—hurry, let them in! Holy!

  How good is God?! A hero’s been sent here

  by Heaven to defend the Danes from Grendel!

  At least, that’s what I hope he’s come to do.

  If he relieves the pressure on our Paradise,

  I’ll pay him in gold! Go back before he comes

  to his senses and runs. Bid him appear

  before his father’s friend: he’s more than welcome

  here in Denmark!”

  Wulfgar returned to the Geats, stood at the door,

390    and said: “My king, the East-Danes’ leader-in-arms,

  tells me he knows your father, and that

  you seafarers are welcomed into Heorot. He hails

  you, as he would homecoming soldiers. Go, dressed

  in your war-gear, your helms, your masks,

  and present yourselves to Hrothgar.

  No shields necessary, nor spears, boys,

  leave your slaughter-slingers here.”

  Beowulf arose, and around him rose his armored army,

  though some stayed to guard the war-hoard, by request.

400    They hastened behind their leader through Heorot’s radiance.

  Their battle-bringer stood before the fire, glowing,

  and considered his words, his chain mail the myth-protecting

  work of a smith, links netted to one another

  for war-glory. His helmet made him look harder,

  so he spoke from beneath it:

  “My respects to Hrothgar. I’m a kinsman

  of Hygelac, and over the years, no boasts—

  I’ve been known for my promise and prowess.

  I heard tell of Grendel from sailors—seriously,

410    the whole world knows the stories, swapped and sworn,

  of Heorot Hall’s early curfew, how every night

  you surrender to silence when the sun sprints

  out of Heaven, leaving the celestial dome dark.

  Every elder knew I was the man for you, and blessed

  my quest, King Hrothgar, because where I’m from?

  I’m the strongest and the boldest, and the bravest and the best.

  Yes: I mean—I may have bathed in the blood of beasts,

  netted five foul ogres at once, smashed my way into a troll den

  and come out swinging, gone skinny-dipping in a sleeping sea

420    and made sashimi of some sea monsters.

  Anyone who fucks with the Geats? Bro, they have to fuck

with me.

  They’re asking for it, and I deal them death.

  Now, I want to test my mettle on Grendel, best him,

  a match from man into meat. Just us two,

  hand to hand. Sweet. Let me ask one thing, though,

  King of the Bright-Danes, Friend of Men, Dire-Defender

  Against the Dark, He Who Knows What It Means to Fight—

  trust me on this. Don’t refuse my humble request.

  We came a long way, me and my men, to conquer

430    your curse and cleanse Heorot. This task should be ours

  and ours alone, as discussed. I’m told your pest

  mocks metal? In that case, I’ll make my man

  Hygelac proud, his fame fiercer.

  Your boy will enshroud his blade, and

  fight with fingers and nails.

  No sword, no shield, no safety net,

  nothing but my grip, a hand-clasped battle

  to the death. When we see who wins,

  we’ll know who’s got God’s favor.

440    If it’s Grendel—I’ll be a mere chapter

  in his gory story. He’ll feast on Geats,

  ripping my men limb from limb,

  and I won’t be there to protect them.

  I’ll be dead, too, cheekbones chewed

  and face forgotten, my body dragged

  to his lair, where he’ll fare alone on my

  severed head, make a banquet of my flesh,

  he and I, alone again, naturally. Don’t cry

  for this broken boy, don’t lay out what’s left of me.

450    If warfare revokes my pass to Earth’s kingdom,

  just send this mail-shirt made by Weland—

  willed to me by my grandfather Hrethel—to Hygelac.

  Horrors happen, I’m grown, I know it.

  Bro, Fate can fuck you up.”

  Hrothgar, the Scyldings’ own skull-protector,

  had some things to say: “Beowulf, I count you

  a favored fight-friend now. Your father?

  I knew him from a feud, which he began,

  by killing Heatholaf, that, too, hand to hand—

460    and Heatholaf was a Wulfing, so that shit

  couldn’t stand. Your father’s country

  wouldn’t keep him—they threw him out—

  and he set sail over sea to me. I was

  a young king of the Danes then, hauling up a hoard

  of treasure, that ladder’s rungs burnt

  beneath me. My brother Heorogar had died,

  and he was the firstborn, the better.

  I was the lesser brother, but it didn’t matter. I fixed

  your father’s feud with fistfuls of old gold, my treasure

470    shipped to stop his country’s wound. Ecgtheow

  owed me allegiance ever after.

  Oh, it hurts my head that the world knows

  of my grief, of Heorot’s heartbreaker. Is there

  laughter in far-off places, at me, and at my men?

  I’m humiliated my hall-force has bent to Grendel’s

  greed, and I’m short of saviors, bleeding the brave,

  feeding them to Fate. God giving ground not to heroes,

  but to this twelve-winter shit-season!

  And yet, over and over, when golden mead

480    was pouring, warriors swore their safety

  was nothing compared to Heorot’s.

  They’d sleep with swords, with certainty,

  but when the sun rose … slaughter. Benches

  bloody, no sign of those brave soldiers, the floor a pool,

  where once it was a playground for poets. It’s all

  written in red. Know before you dine, Beowulf:

  your predecessors are deceased. But sit down, my new old friend.

  Boy, enjoy the feast. Take your place in the tale of

  my heroes and their hopes.”

490    A banquet-bench was brought, an empty one,

  so every Geat could sit beside his brothers,

  and there they dined, in splendor. At their shoulders

  stood a server, and he held a jeweled ewer

  filled with mead, sweet for singing and for feasting.

  A scop sang, too, his voice surging like a swallow

  into the verging arches of Heorot, cheering for this party

  of Danes and Geats, all bold men met to bet on Beowulf.

  Near Hrothgar’s feet squatted Unferth, Ecglaf’s son,

  unconvinced, whispering churlish words. Beowulf’s

bravado

500    bristled him, and envy ate him alive. He’d historically been

glorious,

  and the notion that another, more notorious under Heaven,

  might enjoy greater greatness, made him gnash.

  “Bro, do you happen to be the Beowulf

  who challenged Breca in the open ocean,

  insisting you should swim in shark-seas

  for no reason but to prove your petty prowess?

  Boasting that no boat should guard your lives,

  but that you should risk them recklessly?

  I heard no one could convince you two of clarity,

510    that you dove overboard, surfing on stupidity,

  swearing you knew the currents better than any other,

  and that you, swole as a troll fed on travelers,

  were superior to any swell.

  You lolled for seven nights in wintry waters,

  and in the end? He outswam your fool self,

  skipped to shore unscathed though uncertain,

  and rolled onto the sand safely, in the land

  of the Heotho-Reams. From there, he went

  to his home country, where the Brandings

520    adored him, a calm and pleasant place,

  and returned to his hall, his host.

  His boyish boast was proven, yes, he’d

  bested Beowulf. No matter your other battles,

  the tales you told, the lines you sold,

  buddy, at least you lived. This time?

  Bro, know it: no one’s ever lasted

  a night clasped in Grendel’s arms.”

  Beowulf, Ecgtheow’s son, wasn’t fazed:

  “Well actually, buddy, sit down, you’re drunk.

530    Unferth, you’ve run your mouth about Breca, me,

  and our sea-swagger, but let me drop some truth

  into your tangent. I’ve been better on the water,

  deeper in the drink, and stronger in the swim,

  than any man alive. Breca and I were boys

  together. Our desires were only dares, one upon

  the other, brother to brother, maybe you know this story?

  But hold up: I forgot, you’ve got no brothers left.

  We declared ourselves adventurers, and so we swam,

  swords in hands for safety, unsheathed, father-forged.

540    We knew there were sharks. No one here is stupid.

  He couldn’t float freer or swim straighter than I,

  and I had no urge to leave him or lose the lesser

  swimmer. I was Breca’s lifeguard. I knew my duty.

  The rains rocked us, and storms shook us, and for five nights

  we floated, warring against winds from the north,

  the waves like blades, bone-cold, until at last,

  we were blown apart, the biting beasts of the bottom

  roiling up to wring me, wrestling me to the seafloor.

  All that held me was my armor, clasped hands

550    made of gold, chain mail gainsaying waves and wet,

  the work of ancestors forging my ferocity.

  It kept me bold enough to fight when a monster

  dragged me down and gripped me, ripping at my skin.

  I was pinned, swaddled in squalor. Last chance, I took it—

  I put that monster down, I made it a sleeper as it leapt,

  severed its spine, spiked its skull, and split it into smithereens.

  My own strength sank that sea monster, and

  soon I was fighting again, lower than any human’s sight,

  outside even the edges of God’s light. Dark deeps, Hell’s creatures

560    in them, swinging my sword beneath the eyes of the world.

  I would not be eaten, nor beaten, no skewered swimmer I,

  no drowned dinner for a circle of cold companions,

  gobbling my guts, glutted on my gold.

  At dawn, I surfaced in a slurry of scales,

  floating flotsam where formerly there’d been fangs.

  I’d sacrificed myself to save every subsequent seafarer

  from deep despair, and the monsters

  of the dark were gone. The east was gilded

  with God, and the sea was smooth.

570    I could see the shore, the strong cliffs rising,

  built of their own bruises. If a man’s brave enough,

  Fate, when on the fence, will often spare him.

  I’d never brag, but the truth is, my sword slew

  nine singular scavengers that night. There are

  no oceangoing stories more awful

  than mine, no tales of greater terror,

  no other man so sea-stalked, but I survived,

  my salvation in my own hands. The waves

  bore me shoreward, attending me, and left me

580    at long last in the land of the Finns. The End.

  I’ve racked my brain, bro, but, Unferth,

  I can’t unpack any similar stories of

  heroics from you. Let me say it straight:

  You don’t rate and neither did Breca

  when it came to battle. The gulf? You’re cattle,

  and I’m a wolf. I’m not even mentioning your sins,

  your kin-killing, your brother-beating:

  I’m not the man to damn you.

  No shit, though, Unferth, if you were

590    the bitter-brawling brave you claim to be,

  your king wouldn’t have suffered a single night

  of Grendel’s rampage, no bitten bones,

  no hall-horror, no chaos in his kingdom.

  Grendel was aware he had nothing to fear here.

  Your sword’s soft, son. No warrior

  awaited him in Heorot. The Scyldings

  were unshielded, their hall unguarded. He knew

  he could crush you, comfort himself with grappling,

  grind your bones to make his bread. He’s got no fear

600    of beer-hall brothers, but, this you can quote—he’ll fear me.

  There’re no guns of note on anyone but me and my Geats.

  Come on, Ecglaf’s son. Beat me. Or better yet, make me a bet

  that Grendel’s maker won’t be met. Then, if you brave boys

  feel like drinking, I’ll serve you ale for breakfast, the sun shining

  on silver and gold, daylight yours, after night’s been mine.”

  This speech was more than enough to convince the ring-giver,

  his hair gray, his war-grace blazing. The king

  of the Bright-Danes knew now he could defend his people

  with an assist from this warrior of the wider world.

610    He got the party started, loud and lordly,

  and the hall welled up and overran with laughter.

  Wealhtheow appeared among them then, Hrothgar’s queen.

  Gleaming, her gown golden, she chose her chance to charm.

  She was the cup-keeper. She raised it high to show the men,

  then bore it to Hrothgar, Dane’s delight,

  her husband and home-holder. She held it to his lips

  and he drank deeply, the love of country in each draft.

  He threw it back as fast as once he’d drawn his sword,

  this old, old lord of war, and his men cheered. She went round,

620    a Helming-hostess, treading with purpose, rings shining,

  beer-sounding soldiers, old and young, both of her own

house

  and the sea-slayers’, goblet held to her breast. Hashtag: blessed.

  At last, Beowulf was before her, fingers outstretched.

  She welcomed him carefully to Heorot as a hero,

  a man who’d answer hopes with hands, and who might,

  please God, finally redeem her land from Hell.

  The warrior took the cup from Wealhtheow, eager

  for the end of festivities, for the night and fight to come.

  He was ready for his war, and a wight awaited him.

630    Beowulf sipped, and the son of Ecgtheow assured the queen:

  “Woman, I knew my plan when I set off for this coast.

  Before I put my band in that boat, already I was bent

  on victory. I mean to give you a show, to make

  your sleep safe or be slain myself, Grendel’s spikes

  in my skin. I’m gonna do as real men do,

  and render myself a reaper, bleed him dry,

  or let Death attend me and cup-bear in your place,

  here in this mead-hall.”

  The hostess was impressed by Beowulf’s boasts.

640    Brass balls, if nothing else. She posted up

  beside Hrothgar, queenly, her gold glinting.

  There was more celebration, the kind of party

  that hadn’t been heard of in a while,

  rowdy and riotous, loud with laughter

  and proud poetry, until the Halfdane’s heir

  arrested rhyme for rest. The fiend, he knew,

  had been silent, subterranean while the sun shone,

  but now it was night. Darkness draped the Earth.

  The happy hall would soon be a demon’s domain,

650    the men his dreadful diet. Shadows slunk from the swamp,

  and mists mossed the cliffs and hillsides. The men stood

  witness as their leaders took leave.

  Hrothgar wished luck on the late-lingerer,

  gave him all hall-power, and proclaimed:

  “I’ve never, not in all my years of shield-bearing,

  trusted any other could hold this hall from horrors.

  It’s yours tonight. May you ward it well:

  it was built for the tenders of the flame. Keep

  your reputation in mind, and stand unyielding

660    against the brute. If I find you alive in the morning,

  I’ll reward you beyond your wildest dreams.”

  Hrothgar and his household left the hall,

  the leader and protector of the Scyldings

  bound to Wealhtheow’s bed for comforts—

  his wifely strife-soother. The king, it would

  prove, had appointed a watcher whose muscles

  were monster-matched, Fate-directed

  to the Dane-chief as a prince-protector.

  The Geats knew all this already. They trusted

670    their man, his iron arms and brawling brand.

  Beowulf stripped, removed his breastplate and helmet,

  handed off his fine-forged heirloom sword—

  his servant swooned over that sweet smith’s steel,

  ordered in no uncertain terms to ward and keep it safe.

  Beowulf headed to bed, swollen with certainty,

  and swore, this mortal gift from God:

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard about hand to hand,

  but my hands are better than good, man. I’m direr

  than any demon. I won’t slice Grendel with a sword, boys—

680    too simple—I’d end him too quickly; it’d be unfair.

  He has no skill, only reptilian skin. His mind’s

  got no flair for strategy, though his strength

  is savant. Nope, I’ll go unarmed into this evening,

  and he’ll take it on the chin—if he’s got guts

  enough not to flee. May God referee

  this ring, and declare the winner whichever

  of us he wishes.”

  Then Beowulf dropped his head to pillow,

  and beside him rested his command of brave men,

690    warriors of sea and sleep. They were ready

  to see life’s end, and didn’t expect to lay eyes

  on their heartland again, not familiar soil,

  not their parents, not their wives. They knew

  the story of the slaughterer, the dozen years Danes

  had been driven from their home-hall. The Almighty, though,

  had other plans, a tapestry of terror threaded with triumph,

  the Weather-Geats the victors. They’d rise with their leader,

  crush the challenger, and cruise through creation

  kinsmen to a king. You know how it goes:

700    God’s the final decider, and men only the

  question-askers, students seeking solace.

  In the dead of night, Grendel emerged,

  a predator without need of torch,

  serged to the shadows. Nearly all the guards

  were sleep-sagging, chins to chests. They’d stitched

  themselves to God, and knew no enemy could hem

  them in, not without Almighty approval.

  Just one thane waited, feigning sleep

  as the hour grew late. He lay awake, on high alert.

710    Hidden by fog, Grendel roved the moors, God-cursed,

  grudge worsening. He knew who he hunted:

  wine-drunk, mead-met men, and he pined

  for his prey. Under storm clouds, he stalked them,

  in his usual anguish, feeling a forbidden hearth,

  that gilded hall atop the hill, gleaming still,

  through years of bloodshed. This was not

  the first time he’d hunted in Hrothgar’s hall,

  but never before nor later had he such hard luck.

  No one worthy had historically lain in wait.

720    The warrior worked his way toward the war,

  his head and heart hurting, and arrived

  at the iron-crossed door. Its hinges howled a welcome,

  and his rage ratcheted up. He flung the hatch

  wide and leapt into the mead-room, over

  decorated floors, into the hold, fury frothing.

  His heart crowed as he counted them, man by man,

  nested together, roosting like roasting chickens.

  He’d be the sort of fox that stalks the night.

  Eat his fill, no coo remaining, no bill—only feathers,

730    loose on the floor. Before sunrise, he planned to prise souls

  from skeletons. His wyrd, though, would no longer be writ

  in others’ blood, red footprints to the door and out,

  the moors, the mere. No. Tonight was the night

  Grendel’s goose would be cooked, his funeral

  banquet bruised and blue.

  Fervid and flexing, faking sleep,

  Hygelac’s servant spied from his bench,

  scanning slit-eyed the long-haunted hall, awaiting

  the hunted hunter. At last his enemy struck,

740    snatching a sleeper, sucking him bone-dry,

  staining the pale planks red, grunting, gobbling,

  gnawing him limb from limb, here a throat,

  here a head, fingers, feet—dead.

  Hands outstretched to slaughter a second,

  Grendel dropped his first course,

  spotting the bed where Beowulf slept.

  He gripped that sleeper, though, and found himself

  conscripted, his own hand grabbed

  by a commanding Geat. The grasp began

750    the tear that would take Grendel out, rendering him

  a revenant in the hall he’d always reveled in.

  His bones cracked, but he could not wrestle free

  from the clasp, war-wedded to a woe-bringer,

  who clung like no human ever clung,

  keeping him close. Grendel was an unwilling draftee,

  never bested before, nor held hostage.

  Now Hygelac’s man, chanting the boasts

  he’d made his bed-rhyme, climbed from the covers

  to get a better grip. Knuckles buckled, joints

760    unjoined. The attacker became the attacked—

  racked with pain, attempting to escape,

  to race from hall to fens, his hidden highways.

  His own grasp unlatched, his flesh-locks loosened,

  try though he might to divest himself of Heorot

  and return home, dive into the dark and abide

  with any awful thing there, stay in stealthy-health

  the rest of his days. The room shook, benches splintered,

  and Danes dreamt of doom, or quivered, questioning.

  The warriors wrestled, muscles bulging, and raged,

770    screaming for their lives, and the hall trembled

  but stayed standing, its design fit for fighting,

  the wooden walls crossed with iron bands,

  a forest fettered together—though from what I’ve heard,

  the mead-benches stood on end and shattered,

  gold sigils no match for battle.

  The two fighters fought on in the rubble.

  I mean, damn, man, until this night, no Scylding

  would’ve believed the hall could be felled

  by anything but flame, its ivory and iron,

780    its careful cantilevers. Tonight, though,

  it risked timbering.

  A wailing clamor rose again, echoing

  over the confines, and the North-Danes listened

  to the sound of doom’s hammer, instability

  building a home in the hearts of those who heard it.

  The whole hill quaked with the shriek

  of that Almighty-abrogate, the loner’s lament,

  handcuffed by hopelessness, losing to an unforeseen

  leader. The warrior holding him was stronger

790    than any monster, more muscular than any man.

  That stalwartest of soldiers had no wish

  to imprison the invader, only to slay him.

  Grendel’s life wasn’t worth living, and Beowulf

  had decided to end it. His own men

  stood to as the unarmed enemies swung

  heirloom blades willy-nilly;

  though, really, their captain needed no safekeeping.

  They swung for the slayer’s soul, but their struggle

  was for naught. They could’ve stayed sleeping

800    rather than fought, or merely watched

  the battle, for their swords, sharp as they were,

  couldn’t injure the fiend—his spells warded him,

  annealing his skin. Still, his death would be agony.

  The world clung to his fingers, and life-leaving

  wouldn’t be swift, no existence-snuffing

  instantaneous gift, but sickly slow suffering,

  his sinning spirit sent to sink

  slowly down to Hell.

  He knew it now, he who’d spent seasons haunting

810    this hall, preying on poets, bringing pain to the privileged,

  infuriating the Almighty: his body was breached;

  its bones were breaking. Hygelac’s kinsman had him,

  hand-welded. Each of them, living, canceled out the other,

  as Cain had Abel, brother unbrothered.

  Grendel’s shoulder split, tendons twisting,

  arteries unscrolled, his limb worried from him,

  bested by fatal fists. Beowulf, the winner;

  Grendel, dismissed. He ran then, for his grave,

  still living. He rushed to the water,

820    wound weeping, lair his last longing.

  His hourglass was emptying now,

  his days done, and he knew it.

  Each heartbeat wrote its number in red,

  and the Ring-Danes were delivered

  of their wretch with a wring:

  this enemy was dead.

  The ranger had arranged a cleansing, swept the hall

  while the Danes were sleeping, done the danger in.

  He was pleased with himself, a Geat-son’s boasts

830    proven in the Danes’ den. He’d unharrowed Heorot Hall,

  and Hrothgar’s humiliations held no further horrors,

  the darkness of recent fate now taking the form

  of someone lately late—even if the whole wasn’t here,

  but only a hand, Grendel’s arm, torn off by the hero

  at the shoulder and hung on high,

  the span of his grasp displayed.

  Bro, I’ve heard when dawn broke, soldiers

  stampeded to the ring-hall, chieftains coming to

  contemplate the cooling corpse-portion,

840    warriors and wild men from all over the realm,

  wide-eyed with wonder, overwhelmed at the sight

  of Grendel’s tracks in the dirt, no sorrow there

  for those who’d suffered him, but satisfaction at the marks

  of misery where he’d conveyed himself from hall door

  to mere shore, bleeding out. He’d left a river of gore,

  and the warriors had no regrets, imagining him

  dropping, a doomed carcass, into those wicked waters,

  which even now were blood-clotted, scarlet drifts.

  O, the gift of this! That devil-diver, deep in the dark,

850    dimmer, and dimmer yet, dying, dying, dead!

  Here was the truth, everyone knew it,

  Grendel was headed down, Hell-bent.

  Off they went, the elderly officers,

  and the young men behind them,

  all mounted, white men on white horses,

  praising their Heaven-sent hero, Beowulf,

  with every word they spoke. Not north, nor south,

  nor anywhere, they said, was there a man more

  qualified to be king. There was a lot of country

860    between the coasts, a lot of open air beneath the sky,

  and even there, nope, no one better to rule. Of course,

  this unfettered praise wasn’t meant to blame Hrothgar

  for anything—no, no, that was a good king.

  They were giddy enough to gallop for

  the first time in years, pale horses racing

  on trails long unused, though famous

  once for being smooth. And a poet,

  a long-term comrade of the king,

  a man mindful of meter with a

870    memory made of myriad myths,

  began to compose The Tale of Beowulf:

  his enviable exploits, and Geatish feats,

  the sentences rhyming rapturously,

  since now the man was elite enough for permanence.

  The scop had opinions, and he shared them:

  compare/contrast. Stories he’d heard

  about another warrior, Sigemund. Verses detailing

  that man’s hidden past, stealthy acts, dark secrets

  spat only into his kinsman’s ear. The world-roaming

880    of Wael’s defiant heir, all those old tales

  whispered to Fitela, from uncle to nephew,

  who’d together slain giants, their swords

  strong as their certainties.

  “After he died, Sigemund was shaped

  into story-glory for his crowning kill,

  cutting through the hide of a hoard-holder,

  a dragon whose cave he’d crawled inside,

  outrageously alone, without even Fitela.

  He was fortunate in his fortune-hunting:

890    his sword stabbed the serpent, and sliced it

  like butter, straight through scale to stone,

  and the dragon died, leaving bounty

  and bones to Wael’s son, who claimed

  the treasure for himself. He loaded his ship

  with glitter. The dragon, even dead,

  was so embittered it melted, smelting

  dark intention into the metal.

  “These days, everyone knows Sigemund’s name:

  the most famous exile. Far and wide

900    he swung his sword, and his fortunes swelled

  in the years after King Heremod lost his way.

  That king was attacked and betrayed,

  stung in Jutland, ultimately undone.

  His mood swings had mauled his men,

  emboldened his foes, and fractured

  his friends. Senility was suspected,

  and his advisers sorrowed,

  those who’d relied on him to think

  clearly, those who’d trusted the inheritor

910    of the throne to behave as his daddy had:

  reigning righteously, paying promptly,

  shielding the Scyldings’ safety.

  Beowulf is surely such a man, adored by friends

  and men and every living thing, but other kings

  have hoarded horrors in their hearts…”

  While the scop spun, Danes and Geats raced,

  harrowing the highway with hooves. The sunlight

  was bright and brighter, and young men herded

  themselves to Heorot, to gape at the gory

920    glory therein. The king himself, hoary, hallowed

  hoard-holder, ring-bringer, came boldly from

  out of the women’s wing, good man incarnate,

  flanked by ranks of ladies, his queen beside him,

  and paced a path from maid-hall to mead-hall.

  Hrothgar stood on the stairs, staring at the ceiling

  he’d commissioned. Amid gold and gleam hung

  Grendel’s attrition, a lacerated limb.

  “First and most fervent, we give thanks

  to the ever-bearer for this sight, our long struggle

930    cleared in a single night. We’ve suffered years

  of hall-harvesting here, but hard times are done

  at last. God is good. Grendel is gone. Only yesterday,

  I thought my heart would never be mended,

  the evening-rending endless, this house

  of heroes red-rouged, my council risking

  life and limb to bed down in their home-hall,

  and defend this place from demons,

  yet every morning, dozens dead.

  Now, with an Almighty assist, this man

940    has done what no man did before.

  His mother, I forget who she is—is she still alive?—

  should be proud of her prince, an answer to prayers.

  Beowulf, regardless of whether your parents

  survive, you’re my son now, adoption won

  by wily work. ‘Be good to me; I’ll be good to you,’

  I always say. You’ll need nothing in life, boy,

  I’ll feed you, fete you, and count you

  as my foundling. You’re a king-to-be.

  I’ve decorated countless others, treated lesser

950    warriors as brothers, and rewarded the inferior

  for fearlessness, or what passed for it then.

  Now, though, my standards have shifted.

  You’re more than a man, but an immortal:

  your valor in this hall will live in legend.

  I implore the Lord to keep you, my ward,

  in His grace, and wield His power on your behalf.”

  Beowulf, Ecgtheow’s son, replied:

  “We’re lucky to be living, having gone into battle

  with only bright intentions, against a stranger

960    whose might we hadn’t measured. I wish

  you’d been awake to watch me bring war to your enemy,

  to see him beaten, but it was not to be.

  I meant to put him in a headlock, lash him

  to his deathbed, and bludgeon him, clench my fists

  around his throat, strangle till he gasped his last,

  but alas, the Lord set him free.

  What can I say? He slithered from my fingers

  like a serpent, and slipped my knots, screeching

  for the exit. He paid his passage in pulses,

970    though, and left a limb behind, holding the door:

  his hand, arm, and shoulder. There they stayed,

  proof of his incursion, much as he regretted it.

  Behold! Nothing could live limited like that.

  The last of his blood must have boiled by now,

  braiding itself about his body, chaining him

  in coils of pain. He’s dying now,

  if not already dead, a sinner

  awaiting sentence. God, not me,

  will judge him.”

980    Previously prone to calling bullshit,

  Unferth, Ecglaf’s son, was stymied

  as the roomful of nobles took note

  of the horrible hand, hanging whole,

  armpit to fingertips, high in the eaves.

  The nails were notorious, hard as though

  smith-forged, and the heathen’s hand

  was callused as a carpenter’s, weathered

  by work and warring. Everyone swore

  to what they’d seen: no sword could stab

990    through that skin, no fight-fang tear it.

  Then all hands were hauled on deck

  by order of the king, to restore Heorot to its

  former splendor, citizens resurrecting

  glamour blunted by gore. The golden threads

  in tapestries, depicting scenes of sweeter times,

  distractions in gleaming designs, now

  hung haphazard in the ruined room.

  Reinforced as the walls had been,

  they were still wreckage, door hinges bent,

1000  braces broken. Only the ceiling remained uncracked.

  The intruder had fled first, afraid of expiring

  far from home. Death, no matter our desires,

  can’t be distracted. We know this much is true,

  and it’s true for all souls: each of us will one day

  find the feast finished and, fattened or famished,

  step slowly backward into their own dark hall

  for that final night of sleep.

  In due time, the Halfdane’s heir appeared.

  Tonight the king would dine triumphant

1010  at his own table, reclaimed from ruin.

  Never before had everyone shown up

  so festive, so fiery, to pay tribute

  to their bounty-bringer. Every major man

  was there, pounding cups of mead. Even the king

  shouted for rounds, his nephew Hrothulf

  there beside him, spirits flowing, hearts glowing

  in Heorot Hall. Back then, remember,

  the Scyldings were not yet inclined

  toward treachery, though things would change.

1020  Hrothgar gave his own father’s sword to Beowulf,

  presented it formally. With it a helmet, mail-shirt,

  and war-banner, all precious property of his people.

  Beowulf drank deeply, pleased and petted,

  feted to the utmost, gifts raining down

  upon him like pennies from Heaven.

  The Halfdane’s sword, the gold, the glitz:

  the rest of the hall-soldiers watched it happen.

  I mean, personally? I’ve never seen anything

  like it, so many treasures sliding down the table,

1030  a battle-dowry moved from man to man, over ale,

  no less. No fighting? No fury? Nope, bro, this was

  a certain type of night. The golden helmet, for example,

  was ringed with ridges, wrapped in wire to tire any sword

  that sought the skull of a shield-warrior occupied

  with other enemies. Now the king called for eight

  steeds to be led into the hall, each in its own

  horse-helmet, harnessed in gold, and one mare

  was buckled under Hrothgar’s own saddle,

  the same saddle he used for swordplay,

1040  gem-dripping, blinged-out, brought forth only

  when the king himself was slaying. That man, remember,

  was the first to fight in wartime, the first to kill,

  swinging before any of his boys could be slain.

  Ing’s descendant dropped all these delights upon Beowulf,

  the weapons, the horses, ordering him to use them in health.

  Yeah, the lord of Heorot paid properly,

  tendered treasure for services rendered in blood.

  Anyone knows how fair it was:

  bro, more than fair.

1050  And more than this, even, the king bequeathed

  to each of the sea-soldiers on Beowulf’s bench.

  Every life-risker got a golden gift of his own,

  and the man who’d been assassinated

  by Grendel was vindicated in treasure.

  The invader would’ve murdered many more,

  had God not gotten in the mix.

  One man’s mettle kept the rest

  from massacre. You have to look at it

  this way, and reconcile yourself:

1060  God’s in charge, always has been,

  always will be, and anyone who lives long

  will endure both ecstasy and ugliness.

  It was an hour for singing then, and instruments

  were hauled out for the battle-bringing king,

  who called for harps, epics, and heroic histories.

  Healgamen, Hrothgar’s poet, was ready with rhymes,

  spitting the saga of the sons of Finn, word-whipping

  his way into the fight in Friesland, the day

  the Danish king, Hnæf of the Scyldings,

1070  fell to lack of fealty.

  “Hildeburh had nothing tender to say

  about the Jutes and their loyalties.

  She’d surrendered son and brother here,

  her home-hall become a brutal battlefield.

  Innocent of crime, yet cursed, captured,

  speared, worse. Hoc’s daughter was savaged

  by sorrow, grief-gutted. Who wouldn’t weep,

  as dawn drove feud-daggers deeper, the sun scoring

  her son’s wounds, day breaking upon her dearest dead?

1080  They’d been her heart, her happiness, her hopes.

  War had wrung them ragged, dragged them to death

  across a court of sword-crossed kin.

  “There was no fighting now, no. Finn had only lack left.

  He could not attack from here and battle to the end

  with Hengest. Though this had been his own hall,

  most of his men were dead, and what could Finn,

  the host, do to preserve the rest

  from their enemies? A truce was his only option,

  a partitioned hall, sword split in half,

1090  the Danes quartered in one portion, the Frisian throne

  and edifice now a shared territory. Daily, he’d give gifts

  to both sides, his hands open as widely

  to Hengest and his men, unwillingly ruled over

  by their ring-lord’s reaper, as to his own men, the Frisians.

  They’d all be encouraged in encomiums,

  given hope with heirlooms. Everyone would be hostage

  to hall-jollity, and beer would be drunk without jeering,

  both sides pacified by precious things.

  This, then, was the treaty. The agreement

1100  was sealed in gold, all former fighters

  guaranteed greed-grace. It was sworn solemnly

  to Hengest by Finn, and any Frisian who broke it,

  who thought he might divide the room

  with whispered insults, raising recent wrath

  with snide ribbing, would be pricked.

  The sword’s point would decide.

  “The pyre was built, gold unhoarded, to properly mourn

  the Scyldings’ king, who slumbered on his death-weald,

  awaiting warmth he’d never feel. The landscape was littered

1110  with reddened metal, mail-coats gored, links bent,

  boar-shaped helmets, dented where swords had scraped

  skulls. Other bodies, too, of noble Danes, unraveled

  by gaping wounds, traveling to journey’s end.

  “Hildeburh sent her son to his last station

  at Hnæf’s shoulder, their soul-vessels

  to be burnt together: family, finally, in flame.

  She raised her voice in mourning, keening for her kin

  as the pyre was lit. Smoke smothered her song, darkness

  made of skin and bone. These men who’d been tended

1120  by those who loved them were carcasses now,

  heads melted, wounds running, reopened

  for flame-ravens. Fire comes from the same

  family as famine. It can feast, unfulfilled, forever.

  The dead of both nations were done,

  glory days gone for good. The fighters fell away,

  finding families and forts across Friesland,

  visiting the living, too long close-quartered

  with corpses.

  “Hengest, though, boarded a wicked winter

1130  in Finn’s hall, heart howling for his

  own king and hearth, the weather too wild

  to loosen his ship. For him, the ice and snow

  were tinted red, and kept him clinging

  to a killing country. At last, as always happens,

  the season shifted to spring. Another year appeared,

  sunlight, green tendrils, the earth’s bosom in bloom,

  a time for returning, the exiled yearning for home …

  But more than that, to get it done with, the avenging,

  without which Hengest would be unmanned.

1140  He itched to bring justice to Jutes.

  “When Hunlafing lay a legendary sword in his lap, well—

  it was named Flame-Fang for a reason. Any season

  is a season for blood, if you look at it in the right light.

  The Jutes knew this blade already. They should’ve

  expected it to twist, to key their kingdom.

  Hengest only did what he had to do: tipped the pitchers,

  spilt the ale, red rivers running under wooden benches.

  Finn fell when Guthlaf and Oslaf,

  hard henchmen, brought up the last winter’s battle,

1150  blaming brutality on their bold host, and their grief

  on him, too, the pain of their loss unquenched,

  the only remedy blood-balm. The Scyldings washed the walls

  with rancor, slew Finn and all his men, and bore away

  his world-queen. They ransacked the hall for a hoard,

  grabbing all the treasure they could hold, golden collars,

  jewels. Onward, then, over the sea, and back to Denmark,

  they brought their woman, straight-spined, returning her

  to the country she’d come from.”

  That dark entertainment was done—words had won over wine

1160  long enough. Now laughter conquered conversation.

  Serving boys poured pleasure from pitchers. Wealhtheow,

  weighted in gold, processed to her place between two good men,

  Hrothgar and his nephew Hrothulf, who back then yet trusted

  in the links of lineage. There, too, waited Unferth, at the feet

  of those men, the Scylding’s lords, who trusted him, too—

  perhaps not as much as they trusted themselves—

  but still, a brave man, though a sibling-slayer,

  brilliant, though a brother-breaker.

  The lady offered up all she had to trade:

1170  “Accept this cup from me, my lord of rings, and lift

  this golden goblet. Give the Geats their due. Be good

  to them who’ve been good to you. Gifts are for granting,

  and your hands should be open, your heart happy,

  even as you remember—I know you do—the good men

  who gave kith-gifts to you. Heorot’s red walls have been

  whitewashed, purged of horror. And I hear you’ve chosen

  a brand-new son, this Cain-cleansing warrior. I know you know

  that life is short, that you are mortal—the blessings you bask in

  today are boons for bequeathing. I ask only that you gift

the kingdom

1180  to your kin, before your sword is sheathed in smoke. I know

  your nephew Hrothulf well, his noble blood, his moral code—

  he’ll serve our sons and raise them right.

  I trust he’ll treat them sweetly, if you should die

  before he does, repaying our kindness with son-safety.

  We took him in when his father died, and if he recalls it at all,

  he knows how to behave: we gave the orphan everything,

  made him one of our brave men, when he’d have been alone.”

  She bent then to her boys’ bench, where

  Hrethric and Hrothmund sat, with all the young sons

1190  of chieftains. There, too, was a grown man, good, great

  Beowulf the Geat, positioned between them.

  She brought him the cup. She called him friend.

  She gave him gold. Her will was wrought

  in rings. She offered armlets, garments, a neck-ring:

  a collar larger than any I’ve ever seen,

  heavy as Heaven is light, and all of it brighter

  and better than any hoard since Hama’s,

  who himself hooked the flaming throat-chain

  of the Brisings, those amber god-reins,

1200  and trekked it back to his own fortress,

  fleeing Eormenric’s treachery

  and securing his soul with gold-barter.

  And later, hear it: Hygelac the Geat, Swerting’s nephew,

  would be the final owner. In his last battle,

  beneath banners, he’d hold to his hoard, fighting furiously,

  shackled to this sparkling string, this precious, poisonous

thing.

  Fate would fell him and his prideful priorities, the Frisians

  following his feud-fuel, and he in heavy armor, gem-governed,

  would be slain. He’d worn that same sparkle when he crossed

1210  the sea-coupe, but even champagne goes flat. His bling

  would go to Frankish kings, from plundered breastplate

  to that famous throat-chain, and lowlier warriors

  would gloat over the goners, getting what gold they could

  from Geat corpses, a field full of the forgotten.

  The hall thundered with handclaps. Wealhtheow went on

  with her gift-giving, thus witnessed: “Take this golden collar,

  dear Beowulf. May it keep your head on straight.

  Wear this mail-shirt, too—a treasure of my people.

  May it protect your heart-hoard. Guide my two sons,

1220  guard them, keep them as they are tonight,

  and I will keep you as you are: draped in delights.

  You’re famous here, and long after your lifetime,

  you’ll be known, your story sweeping as the sea,

  shores borne into being by waves of words.

  My prince, may you be blessed by this bounty.

  Keep my sons close. Treat them as we treat one another

  here in Heorot: tenderly, trustingly, loyally.

  No one conspires to hurt—only to hold fast with brothers.

  Believe me, Beowulf: my thanes’ wishes align with mine.

1230  The sole desire of those drinking here,

  is to do my bidding when it comes to you.”

  She settled into her seat. Wine waterfalled into men’s mouths—

  it was a banquet unmatched in munificence. After all,

  they had no foretelling of Fate’s fixed plans. A shadow

  stretched over sweetness, formless and fatal.

  Night fell and Hrothgar readied himself for rest,

  his quarters calling him to sleep. Men stood guard,

  as they always had. The floor that bristled with benches

  became a swan-road, white waves of bolster and feathers,

1240  and though one of those drinkers turned dreamers

  was doomed, he didn’t know it.

  The Geat’s shields served as shining headboards,

  and on each bench was arranged a helmet, hulking,

  a mail-shirt with rings like linked fingers, and

  a splinterless spear, tree-sleek, ready for wrath

  anytime, to be brought into play without notice,

  as was the habit of their homeland and war-wanderings.

  They were ready to wreak havoc, anytime, anyplace—

  their lord was a lucky lord. The Geats were hard-core,

1250  but even Geats need sleep, so sleep swept them away.

  One dreamer would die dreaming. This was nothing new,

  given Grendel’s former residence in the golden hall,

  but his eviction had made evil dwindle in the minds

  of the defenders. That story, they thought, was over.

  There was another chapter. An avenger lay in wait,

  counting sworded seconds until the latest hour,

  her heart full of hatred. Grendel’s mother,

  warrior-woman, outlaw, meditated on misery.

  She lived, ill-fated, sinking beneath cold currents

1260  to her kingdom under-country, her line linked

  to extinction since Cain crossed swords with Abel

  and fled, murder-marked, to make his home

  in wastelands, solitary and silent. From Cain came

  more misery, a legacy of lost souls.

  Grendel was one of those, banished and blasted.

  He’d found a waker among the dreamers, a battle

  amid the beds, and wrestled the warrior who’d

  woken into war. Beowulf saw himself as God’s gift,

  Grendel as a goner; he used his strength to slay

1270  the intruder, trusting in his Father to protect him,

  as He always had. He bled the hellion, and

  Grendel fled piecemeal, no Heaven for him,

  no honey, only rushing through a haunted hall to die

  in his own mausoleum. Now his mother was here,

  carried on a wave of wrath, crazed with sorrow,

  looking for someone to slay, someone to pay in pain

  for her heart’s loss. She found the path,

  and made her way to Heorot.

  Ring-Danes were dreaming there, a murdering herd

1280  of sleepers, drooling, drunk, their feast filling them.

  They were the cream of the crop, but soon

  they’d be chaff, scythed from swordsmen

  into skeletons. She was the one to do it.

  The horror wasn’t muted by the measure

  of women’s strength against men’s brawn.

  Both can hold slaying swords, glazed with gore,

  and score the boar-crests from war-helmets,

  warming them with blood.

  In Heorot Hall, hard-honed blades were yanked

1290  from over benches, shields shouldered

  to cover blinking sleepers, waking bareheaded,

  barechested, stunned by her arrival. She moved

  swiftly, knowing she had only moments to sift men

  for her vengeance and remain among the living.

  She tore a warrior from his bed, and dragged him,

  defenseless, to her fen. This was Hrothgar’s best friend,

  most adored on the land between the two salt seas,

  warrior and retainer. She slew him sleeping.

  Beowulf was lucky, bedded elsewhere. After the brawl,

1300  gift-quarters had been appointed him like rings.

  The Geat was asleep when Grendel’s mother struck.

  Heorot Hall howled—she’d taken their trophy, too:

  Grendel’s hand! Man by man, they squalled.

  This was unjust, a bad bargain that both sides should suffer

  losses, though the war was dealt and done, themselves

  the clear winners. The wise king, gray and battle-brittle,

  moaned when he knew the news, that his closest adviser,

  nearest-to-ear, was no more, doornail-dead.

  Beowulf, blood-blessed boy, was hauled from sleep,

1310  hustled hungover to the king’s bedside.

  Boot to boot with his band,

  he marched to the room where

  Hrothgar waited, grim and gloomy,

  wondering if his fate was fucked forever,

  the Almighty refusing to relent.

  Beowulf and his boys threw the doors open

  to sunlight and rattled the floorboards,

  no ground given to grief. Beowulf thundered

  up to the morose prince and asked:

1320  Had Hrothgar slept well?

  Hrothgar had no words. He said some anyway.

  “Don’t speak to me of happiness! Hard times

  have come again! The Danes are in darkness!

  Æschere is murdered! Yrmenlaf’s big brother,

  and my best friend! My battle bro when ranks

  were closing and boar-helms bashed

  into brainpans! He was there, hand to my heart,

  a man like no other, terror-tested, never bested

  until tonight, when a slaughterer withdrew him,

1330  and spirited him from Heorot!

  Where is she? Who knows!

  Glutting on gobbets, after murdering him

  unopposed. This is on you. She threw

  herself into a blood feud after you slew her son

  Grendel last night, tore him and bore him

  into the afterlife, never mind years of his own crimes.

  You gripped him, held him, and he lost the fight,

  fell to the mat, and died. He’s followed by another now,

  an evil intruder, his mother, fueled by fury, a woman

1340  seeking vengeance for her son. She goes too far,

  even as a soldier might in avenging his king,

  grieving the loss of his ring-giver.

  That hand, which once stretched wide, filled

  with golden gifts, now still and cold.

  “Well. I’ve heard my people, those simple citizens

  who live out in the muddy country, say they’ve seen

  these two together, roaming the moor,

  wading the mere, heath-rambling and of a height.

  One is, as far as they can tell, a woman,

1350  and the other, misshapen, formed like a man,

  but larger than any man has a right to be.

  He was named Grendel, a fatherless son.

  Who knows whether he had other kin.

  He was a sin-walker, is all they said,

  those who’ve talked to me of these things.

  They say the two stalked the hillsides,

  the concealed country. They denned with wolves

  and dove in windy rivers, slipped like mist-fish

  into the fen and through it, down into the

1360  darkest places underwater and underground,

  cliff-bound. It’s not far from here, the mere,

  but it’s a world away, a forest frosted

  even in green months, old wood, wicked

  and well-rooted. Water reflects trees

  like tangled teeth, a gaping maw that, at night,

  is lit with flames in the flood. No one’s ever

  touched the bottom. No one born of man, anyway.

  Men can’t go in. Even animals, a heath-hopping hart,

  held to mere’s edge by hounds, would sooner spin

1370  on hooves and fight, lower horns, and ready itself for death

  than step upon that stinking sod and dive into the dark.

  That is a bad place. Waves roil, and taste the sky’s edge,

  winds gust, clouds spit and spark, and when it storms,

  mere mixes with mist, geysers up, and Heaven moans.

  I’ll say it again: this is on you.

  Everything depends on a boy who knows nothing of this terror,

  not least what you might fear when you get there,

  the nerves that might make you quake

  in horror’s homestead. Go in, if you dare.

1380  I’ll pay in gold, old and new, heirlooms

  and holdings lately wrought, if only

  you return having done it.”

  Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, was open for business:

  “No worries, wise one, I’ve got this. When a friend

  needs to be avenged, it’s better to fight than cry.

  Even when mourning, this is how it goes.

  We’re all going to die, but most of us won’t go out

  in glory. Here’s what matters, though, for men:

  not living, but living on in legend. I’m not afraid.

1390  Stand up, protector of this place, and let us go together,

  following Grendel’s mother’s tracks. I give you my fist:

  she won’t get away from Beowulf. There’s no asylum,

  no cleavage cracks in Mother Earth, no tree-barrow,

  no ocean I can’t find her in, wherever she hides.

  Live through today, Hrothgar, it’s the end of your miseries.

  Be as brave as your scops say you are.”

  The old king stood and thanked God, mighty as ever,

  for the promises of this prince. A horse was bridled

  for Hrothgar, its mane knitted into war-braids,

1400  and the wise one, master of many, mounted

  his sparkling steed, his status visible for miles.

  His army followed on foot, shields raised,

  pacing murderer’s tracks, leaving their own uncovered;

  they had no need to hide their hunting from her.

  She’d gone overland, straight through the dark,

  carrying the corpse of the comrade she’d killed, best beloved,

  right-hand man, second set of eyes for Hrothgar.

  The descendants of chieftains rode over razor-edged

  rocks, through perilous passageways, places off-map,

1410  paths too slender for company, where sea monsters

  sang and cliffs called for suicides. Hrothgar took

  the front, his crew behind him, examining

  her tracks, unhappily imagining the path ahead.

  Finally, the trees leaned longingly toward

  the stones, their needles bending as if to break,

  a grove of ghosts. There was the mere,

  water welling up like something wound-wrung,

  red as blood. Though they’d known their man

  was dead, they suffered afresh to discover

1420  in the mere a dark gift: there, at cliff’s edge,

  lay Æschere’s head.

  The company stared as water boiled with blood and bones.

  A war-horn sounded, over and over, but the soldiers

  sagged and sat down. The mere was full of monsters,

  too many to mention: serpentine salt-dragons,

  lizards in lethargy, lying on stones, the kinds of creatures

  that surface seething in ships’ wakes to bare teeth and twist

  about an oar, foil fishers and bring bad omens to sailors.

  The beasts dove, furious and frightened at the noise,

1430  the bugle and battlers’ shouts, the shrillness of seekers

  in their secret space. A Geat drew his bow and struck

  a slithering one. An arrow piercing its scales, it struggled

  and thrashed in the water. The other men, invigorated,

  sought to join the killing; a second shot, a third,

  then they slung themselves into the shallows

  and speared it. This monster they could control.

  They cornered it, clubbed it, tugged it onto the rocks,

  stillbirthed it from its mere-mother, deemed it damned,

  and made of it a miscarriage. They examined its entrails,

1440  awed and aggrieved.

  Meanwhile, Beowulf gave zero shits.

  He dressed himself in glittering gear,

  his mail-shirt finely forged, links locked

  and loaded. He’d meet this murdering mother

  under mere, and amend her existence.

  Even if she tried to smother him, his bone-cage

  would stay intact. No weakness here. His helmet,

  bright against the bleak backdrop, would save his skull

  from the watery substrate, from the black mud

1450  and curious currents—hammered gold for a glamour-god,

  made by one long gone, jewels and boar-shaped ornaments

  imbued by the smith with power to keep other men from dying.

  No battle-teeth could test it, no sword slice that shine.

  Gold is good.

  Last, but not least, Unferth, Hrothgar’s left-hand man,

  unexpectedly stanned for Beowulf, and handed him

  his heirloom, Hrunting, an ancient hilted sword,

  written with runes of ruin, iron blade

  emblazoned with poison shoots, each bud

1460  reddened with enemy blood. In war, it never failed

  to score flesh, had never been wrested from the fist

  of him who held it. It was a sublime soldier’s sword,

  meant to limb enemies, and this wasn’t the first time

  it urged a hero to perform a feat.

  Unferth sent his sword to the more skillful swordsman.

  Note: the stone-bold son of Ecglaf had been blackout drunk

  when he said that stuff he’d said, the rant he’d decanted

  into Beowulf’s ear. He wasn’t man enough to dive

  into rotten depths seeking someone so savage; he’d forgotten it

1470  now. He sought not to risk his skin, so surrendered

  his chance at fame. Why sign up for endless night when

  another man is armored, able, and ready to fight?

  Beowulf, Ecgtheow’s son, laid out his plan:

  “My man, king of wisdom, ring-bringer, I’m about

  to dive deep. Keep those words in mind,

  the pledge we exchanged, that dearly done deal.

  To recap: you, Halfdane’s son, said that

  I’m your son now, adopted and owned,

  that if I died in this dive, you’d father me

1480  to a further shore. In short: I end up dead,

  you pay my corps—feed them, pour them mead.

  Also, adored Hrothgar, you swore

  you’d send Hygelac my gold-get,

  array for my Geat-lord the treasures I won,

  and show him what keys this kingdom’s

  deeded me, what a generous giver you are,

  what a son I was to you while I lived.

  And Unferth! To that soldier I bequeath

  my father-forged heirloom, my wave-winging

1490  war-blade. I’ll gain fame with his Hrunting,

  or be harvested by Hell.”

  The prince of Weather-Geats was done standing on ceremony.

  He stepped to the mere’s edge, and dove like a stone,

  thrown not to skip, but to weight a ship-shrouded corpse.

  Darkness drew him down. Most of a day was done

  before he could see the contours of the bottom.

  She who’d ruled these floodlands proudly for

  a hundred seasons, ferocious, tenacious, rapacious,

  yes, she felt his presence in her realm, and knew

1500  a man from above was invading the below.

  She swam and seized him, but his body was swathed—

  boar-helm, war-shirt—and she couldn’t peel the mail off

  to reveal his dread fate, nor impale him on fingernails.

  She dragged him through dregs instead; the sea-wolf

  slung the soldier out of the abyss and into her hall.

  He was too tightly held to wield his sword, no matter how

  he wished to war against her. As she swam, a shoal

  came seeking to school him: a scrimshaw selection

  of sea monsters, rising out of the dark, tunneling with

1510  tooth and tusk, spearing and jeering. Sharks, seals,

  squealing beasts boring through the bog, biting

  at his battle-shirt. The warrior squinted

  in the shadows and made out the domed walls

  of the hall, damming back the damned waters,

  the mere made sere by engineering.

  He saw the glow of a fire, brilliant light

  flaming up and flaring, and then, at last,

  he saw her: the reclusive night-queen,

  the mighty mere-wife. Fearless, he heaved

1520  his sword to take her life, swinging with all

  his strength so the edge rang against her skull,

  but it was to no avail: his war-torch was dimmed,

  his blood-boldness gone. She was impervious

  to his blade. The sword had failed him,

  though it’d served many worthy soldiers,

  skinned many adversaries, slicing armor,

  hacking helmets into hash. This was the first time

  the heirloom hadn’t overwhelmed an enemy.

  Hygelac’s heir was bent on blood, thinking

1530  of legacy, of legend. He hurled the sword:

  useless hoard-gilt. Let it shatter in the silt.

  He’d fight like a man, and take her hand to hand,

  his fingertips blueprinting her skin. This is what

  real men must do, come on, we all know the truth:

  if you want to win, you have to forget you’re afraid to die.

  The Geat was ready to rumble, pissed now.

  He roared a challenge, warmed for war with

  Grendel’s mother, twisting her hair around his fist,

  raging, swinging her by her own skein, flinging

1540  her to crash against the kingdom she’d reigned over.

  She rose again, relentless, and turned on him, gripping

  and flipping him. The pugilist panicked. His certainty

  crumbling, he took flight and fell. He began,

  sick-hearted, to hear his death knell, his sure feet

  fumbling, his fight-spirit fugitive.

  She bent over his breast, held the hall-invader

  hard to the stones, and drew a long knife. The mere-wife

  meant to avenge her son, her sole heir, but Beowulf’s mail

  shielded him, his shoulder safe in the sclerite of some

1550  smith’s genius, links staying locked to bend her blade.

  Ecgtheow’s heir would’ve been filleted, recategorized

  as MIA, and left to rot in her cavern, had not his suit

  saved him. That, too, was God’s work.

  The Lord, maker of miracles, sky-designer,

  had no trouble leveling the playing field

  when Beowulf beat the count and stood.

  He glimpsed it hanging in her hoard, that armory

  of heirlooms, somebody’s birthright. A sword,

  blessed by blood and flood, ancient, dating from

1560  the dawn of things, so tremendous only a hero

  could heft it, though all would envy it. Beowulf gripped

  the giant’s sword at the hilt, and then he, the Scylding’s

  main man, in desperation, not expecting to exist after this

  night, swung it at his enemy with all his might.

  It was enough: he cleaved her spine. Those bone-rings

  given by God were bitten through, the house of her head

  raided, as her hall had been. She bent as though

praying,

  and was spent, sinking to the stones. The sword sweated red;

  the swordsman regretted nothing.

1570  The light was strong now, a brilliance

  like flame and tallow meeting in a sky

  sick of sleep, and Beowulf took the volume

  of the vault, itemizing everything,

  his sword held high as defense

  against any other awfulness that sought

  him here. Hygelac’s hit man had more

  in mind. He sought to repay Grendel

  for his wrath, for every night he’d spent

  ravening, not just the first evening he’d come

1580  to Heorot, helping himself to fifteen

  Danes and holding another fifteen hostage,

  dragging them from home into horrors.

  Against the far wall, our hero found Grendel,

  still as a sleeper, war-riven,

  a cadaver, cold and collapsed,

  heartless after his time in Heorot.

  Beowulf desecrated the dead,

  swinging the sword again and again,

  and rending the flesh, a heft, a wrench,

1590  removing Grendel’s head.

  Above, Hrothgar’s men surrounded the mere,

  holding the fort as best they could. Suddenly,

  they saw the waters boil with blood, a roiling of gore,

  salt, and sorrow. They lowered silvered heads.

  “Oh no,” said the old men, tightly packed

  around their prince. That was a sad day.

  They wept for lost wishes, sure they’d never see

  Beowulf again, let alone witness him, in triumph,

  presenting his kill to their king. The sea-wolf had

1600  savaged him, everyone agreed, and it was lunchtime.

  The brave Scyldings forsook the cliff top and took

  their gold-giver home, but the visiting Geats, now vagrant,

  stayed—hopeless, heartsick, staring into the churning mere,

  yearning against all evidence for their lord to reappear.

  Below, in Beowulf’s hands, the slaying-sword

  began to melt like ice, just as the world thaws

  in May when the Father unlocks the shackles

  that’ve chained frost to the climate, and releases

  hostage heat, uses sway over seasons to uncage

1610  His prisoner, Spring, and let her stumble into the sun.

  The Geat’s glory got nothing else from that estate,

  though he eyeballed the treasures Grendel’s mother

  had collected. He took only head and hilt, jewel-scabbed

  salvaged gilt. The blade itself had bled out,

  the inscriptions on it smeared to smut, so scathing

  was the blood of the slain stranger. It was done.

  The man who’d made it through alive, survivor

  of his enemy’s annihilation, swam as fast

  as he could swim, undoing his dark dive.

1620  The mere ran clear and pure, now

  the ruler of the deep had unclasped her hand

  from ephemeral existence, letting loose her life.

  He surfaced at last, the hardy-hearted captain,

  swimming to shore, reveling in the heft of his hoard,

  the sea-chest he carried. Stunned, his men ran

  to meet him, thanking all that was holy, his loyal

  entourage rejoicing, shouting that he was risen,

  their lord, their leader, their all. They undressed him,

  freeing him of his armor, letting him breathe air

1630  instead of water. The mere was peaceful now,

  though battle-pinked, reflecting the cloudy sky above.

  Hearts singing with love, they returned

  from stranger’s country by twisted trails,

  lapping the Earth with strides onto known roads,

  safe roads. The boldest men among them

  carried Grendel’s head, a hard task,

  heaving it onto the heath from over sea-cliffs.

  These men were major, massive, and committed.

  Four brave warriors paired off to bear the gore hallward,

1640  a skull spitted on a spear-litter. They approached

  Heorot together, celebrating as they went,

  fourteen ferocious, war-worked Geats, trampling

  down the meadow, Beowulf among them,

  blending into his brothers, matching step for step.

  That leader of men entered the hall a hero,

  and made his way to Hrothgar, grit-written.

  His crew dragged Grendel’s head into the mead-hall,

  where a meal was being served, and a host of lesser men

  ferried cups to mouths. In their midst was the queen of the house,

1650  their hoard, their treasure. The Danes stared, jaws dropped.

  Beowulf made a speech to end all speeches, that son of Ecgtheow.

  “So, we’re back from the brink, Halfdane’s son, Scyldings’

savior,

  bringing you this token of our esteem, sea-booty, gore-loot,

  no big whoop. Here’s to glory! And now, my story.

  I don’t mean to say this shit was no thing. I lived through

  your basic fistfight underwater, a tryst with destruction.

  I did the deed you deemed necessary, but I’d be bluffing

  if I didn’t say I would’ve died had God not kept me close.

  Though my sword seemed severe, I’d have been helpless,

1660  had I had only Hrunting. Hard-core as it is, it failed

  when I brought it to battle. God gave me grace—He sometimes

  saves the solitary—on a ledge glowed another blade,

  marvelous enough to mend the mistake I’d made

  trying to take on Grendel’s mother in her own lair-lake.

  Speed was my only advantage, solo as I was. I snatched

  the sword, striking down the bitch that sought

  to slay me, scoring the other, too, her son. The blade

  blistered as it touched their blood, and rivers of red

  rushed over it, unforging it from fire-fang, into what

1670  you see here, a bladeless hilt. I brought it from below,

  having avenged the Danes’ death. That’s all I need to say,

  except that I promise you and every nobleman here, your sleep

  is safe now. Your corps can defend you, whether brave boys

  or bold men—you need not worry for their lives or longevity,

  Lord of Scyldings, nor fear anyone surging up from the mere.

  We’re done with that damage.”

  The hilt was handed off into the hard hands

  of the ring-lord, a relic older than any ruler,

  rendered in iron by giants, and inherited, after

1680  enemies perished, by the Danish king.

  When the gruesome Grendel gave up the ghost,

  when God won over him and his mother, when that

  murderous pair was rendered moribund, it made sense

  that such a sweet piece, this smith-struck sword,

  would go to the prince, the loftiest lord between

  the salt seas, the guy who gave the greatest gifts on Earth.

  Hrothgar considered his convictions. He handled the hilt,

  an ancient thing, a fossil from forgotten days,

  squinting at the legend left there for the literate.

1690  It was engraved with an epic inscrutable to him,

  the story of how war woke in the world, and a flood brewed,

  drowning the race of giants, placing them beneath the waves,

  a punishment for others, poor Lord-lacking unbelievers,

  sin-soaked strangers, severed from sanctuary.

  On the golden guard, the runes were written perfectly,

  the true name of the sword’s first owner,

  long since ash, for whom it had been forged,

  with its twisted hilt and serpent-slipped steel.

  There was silence until Halfdane’s son spoke.

1700  “A ruler who’s been known as a good man since

  days of old, a generous, just gift-giver, a war-wielding

  homeland healer, is equipped to say the following:

  this man’s as good a man as me. Beowulf, my boy!

  You’ve proven yourself in every context. Your name

  will be known around the world. You’re steady, strong,

  and sure in all respects. I open my arms to you, as agreed,

  and fulfill the bonds of friendship. For your people,

  you’ll be, like me, a defender and a hero.

  But … hold up, hear me out, indulge me a moment.

1710  Heremod, that old king, was no hopeful hero to the heirs

  of Ecgwela, the Honor-Scyldings. His rise was their fall.

  He raged, cut down close comrades, aged advisers,

  and when he died, he died galled and alone, friendless,

  though famous. God had given him grace—granted him

  wealth, health, and power. His road had no rocks on it.

  He’d known only joy. Somehow, though, his heart

  was not a hawk but a drone. He bombed his own bases,

  denied his Danes damages, kept entrenched in combat.

  He commanded his kingdom’s collapse, and was, when ancient,

1720  loathed where he could’ve been loved, his life lesioned

  with losses. Listen to me, boy. Keep your shit straight.

  I’ve been fostered by frost-seasons, fathered by time,

  and I’m dropping knowledge now.

  “Here’s one of the world’s wonders: God is good.

  He’s given us gifts—the capacity for clarity granted our kind.

  He runs the show, though, manages every aspect of existence.

  Sometimes He gives a man from a good clan room to roam

  wherever he desires, every instant filled with joy,

  lets him run his own kingdom and rule over boys

1730  who guard his borders, stand-up guys who’d die for him.

  God does this for so many decades that the man himself,

  because men in the end are fools, forgets how things work.

  He shirks his soul-keeping. There’ll be no changes for him,

  he thinks, no end in sight, no loss of love or life.

  He wallows like a bear in honey, unstung,

  and nothing scathes him, not sickness nor sorrow,

  nor does his mood darken, nor do his enemies find him,

  their blades sharp and stealthy, no—instead the world

  wends to his will. He notices nothing nasty in himself,

1740  until one day everything changes.

  Every guard goes down eventually,

  sagging on the stone wall surrounding the soul.

  Here, while the sentry’s sleeping, a sniper strikes,

  sending a spike into the man’s heart. Now he’s poisoned,

  selfishness searing his certainty—he’s never needed

  to defend himself against internal threats, but the greedy orders

  of this beastly boss make him think the halls he’s guarded,

  the treasures he’s watched over for decades, are nothing

  compared to what he deserves. He hoards, hisses,

1750  hides his gold, refuses support to those who’ve served

  him. He forgets his debts, Fortune’s amnesiac,

  blacking out bounty in favor of bitterness.

  Turn to the end of the story: I’ll wait.

  His body weakens, fails, falls. An inheritor

  crawls into his throne and passes that king’s heirlooms,

  his protected and precious things, to anyone he wishes to woo,

  no regard for the dead man’s worth, rituals, or requirements.

  “Armor yourself against that kind of idiocy, my brave boy,

  my Beowulf. Keep yourself on an even keel, aiming

1760  your ambition at eternity, instead of the everyday.

  Don’t let avarice override intelligence. It’s only a season

  that a young soldier’s strength stays stalwart—

  before plague or blade bring obsolescence. A crackling

  blaze, a rush of waves, a slippery sword-grip,

  a spear soaring silently through the air,

  or even the ague of age. Your gaze will darken, too, boy.

  Your world will dim. Death will kneel over you eventually,

  and solicit your surrender.

  “Hear me now. I ruled the Ring-Danes

1770  for fifty years, fighting adversaries, holding borders,

  our spears and swords against assassins of every nation,

  until I thought my enemies were casualties, Earth

  emptied of them. I relaxed into comfort and fortune,

  and just as we celebrated our conquering every kingdom,

  then, then came Grendel. He waited in the darkness,

  invaded my inner sanctum with savagery, broke my spirit,

  and drove me into a dark depression.

  Thank God, thank all that is holy, I lived long enough

  to see you bring me Grendel’s head, sword-split

1780  after years of struggle. Now I can look upon it,

  crow, and count him a corpse …

  Oh, but I’ve gone on too long.

  Sit down, golden boy, heir of this hall. Feast. There’ll be

  more rewards in the morning, from my hands to yours.”

  Beowulf grinned, and took his assigned seat,

  set by his elder king. A bench bedecked in Beowulf!

  Then the Danes and Geats got down to business.

  The celebration began in earnest—the room was filled

  and a banquet bowed the tables. Night hooded the hall

1790  and wrapped all who celebrated in starry dark.

  At last, the companions rose—their elder was ebbing—

  and called for sleep. The Geat followed suit,

  weary after warfare, heartsick for home,

  accompanied by a hall-officer who led him

  from the company, there to tend to every desire,

  a butler of burdens, bleaching away bloodshed

  and battle, packing off pain.

  It was no more than Beowulf deserved.

  He dove into dreams, as above him

1800  the hall stretched toward Heaven, its gilt

  and vaulted ceilings shielding the hero’s heart.

  At dawn, a black raven called out the melody of morning,

  the happiness of inhabiting the heavens. Sunlight snatched

shadows

  from corners, and wayward warriors readied themselves

  for removal—hungering for home. Their leader was up at

once,

  looking into the distance, his soul seeking his ship.

  The fierce fighter called for Hrunting to be brought,

  and bade Unferth receive it, with thanks for the loan.

  He complimented its blade, and said it had been

1810  a friend to him, powerful in battle. He mentioned

  nothing about the dullness of the edge—

  he had no urge to nurture a grudge.

  Now the warriors were ready to roll, armor on,

  hearts set on home. Their prince approached the dais

  where the king awaited, and knelt at Hrothgar’s feet,

  confident and canny.

  Beowulf (Ecgtheow’s own) said the proper words:

  “It’s time for us who set sail to save this king’s land,

  to tell you we’re overdue to return to our own man,

1820  Hygelac. At Heorot, we’ve been held as kin,

  hosted, kept comfortable, and if there’s anything more

  I can do for you, beyond the battles I’ve won,

  any more of your heart I can win by warring,

  demand it: your wish is my command.

  If I ever hear a whisper over the whale-road

  that your walls are wobbling, that neighbors

  are invading, that enemies are afoot, as enemies

  are wont to be, I’ll appear with a horde of thousands,

  and bring them to bear. Hygelac may not be gray

1830  like you, he may seem young to rule, but know this—

  he has my back. He’ll heed my call if you need help,

  and bring speech and sword to support me, assisting you

  with any needs, as you would me—your new son.

  I’ll bring a spear-forest, a ferocious force,

  should you need fighters. And if your son Hrethric

  should come to foster in Geatland, a Dane-king’s voyager

  in Hygelac’s court, he’ll find friends there.

  Foreign shores share their secrets

  with those who are themselves worthy.”

1840  Overcome, Hrothgar answered him:

  “The Lord, all-knowing, put words in your mouth,

  Beowulf, words of love. I’ve never heard a boy—a man—

  manage such diplomacy, such propriety, so easily.

  Your body’s made of steel, your mind mercury,

  your tongue gold, and if Hrethel’s son should—

  I’m not saying he will—die in battle, a sword,

  spear, or sickness slaying that princely protector

  of your kind, and you remain alive, I’m certain

  with all I know that the Geats would never find

1850  a better man to be their well-won king and protector,

  if you should want that level of lordship,

  that intense responsibility.

  I like you more every moment, Beowulf.

  You’ve bonded two tribes.

  The Danes and Geats are peace-woven now,

  despite our harrowing history.

  We’ve fought fiercely in the past,

  but now we’re friends forever.

  As long as I’m king of this remote place,

1860  my treasury will spill into your coffers—

  all that’s mine on offer, from sea to shining sea.

  All the ships that cross will carry gifts to you.

  I know now what I did not before—your people

  are like my people, perfect and prized,

  defenders of the good against the god-awful.”

  The Dane’s defender dropped gold in the hand

  of the Geat’s glory, twelve treasures more

  given in health and wealth, and bid him

  take himself to shore now, but come back

1870  anytime. The old king had run out of ceremonies.

  He kissed his new best boy, his adopted kin,

  throwing his arms about his neck and weeping.

  Two premonitions overtook him, shaking him

  to the core, the stronger one that they’d never meet again.

  Beowulf was so dear to him he couldn’t

  stop trembling—but in his heart and mind’s eye,

  he foresaw that keeping this savior son nearby

  could only end in flame. He opened his arms.

  He let him go.

1880  Beowulf went forth, a golden warrior

  striding across green grasses. While peering

  off cliffs, he tallied his rewards. His ship

  waited impatiently on him, tugging at her anchor.

  All the gifts given by Hrothgar would be weighed

  as they went on. “That was a good king,” his men agreed,

  perfect in every way, until time, robber of vaults,

  stole his strength and swapped it for softness.

  Down they marched to the shore, bright boys reveling

  in metal dress and battle-gains, stamping in glee.

1890  The land-watch took note of them from afar,

  as he had at their arrival, this time without rancor—

  he raised his hand and rode in greeting, arriving

  as they boarded their vessel, gifts glinting in sunlight.

  He announced to the assembled that the departing heroes

  would surely be celebrated in Geatland. They pulled

  the ship to sand and filled it with a king’s ransom:

  gems and gold, horses and armor, the mast marking

  the spot of their treasure. They hefted Hrothgar’s heirlooms

  whole cloth into the hold, gifting even the coastguard

1900  a sword, gold-wrapped and gorgeous, so that later

  he’d be able to flash it while drinking,

  and say he’d been there when.

  They shoved the ship from the spit, keel splashing

  into salt, Denmark soon distant. Sails whipped

  about her mast, a veil for her sea-gaze.

  Ropes tautened and timbers moaned.

  Winds surged to skip the vessel like a

  smooth stone across the ocean, white with foam,

  lifted by light, until at last the cry was heard,

1910  the cliffs of Geatland grown visible, counted,

  claimed, and the ship sang out for the final

  push, thrusting herself at the shore,

  shoving keel at country.

  Their harbor-watcher was already running,

  waiting as he’d been for days, eyes peeled

  for the return of his tribe. He tugged

  anchor cables, moored the ship to sand,

  heaving her against the current to keep

  the waves from seducing her again. He ordered

1920  that the holds be emptied, gold and gems,

  all stores and hoards straight to shore.

  After that it was only a hop-skip to Hygelac,

  Hrethel’s heir, and the gold would go his way,

  up the cliff to king and company.

  The building was brilliant, the king imposing,

  enthroned in his home-hall. Hygd, his queen,

  was young but shrewd. Though she’d only

  overwintered recently in the realm, Hæreth’s daughter

  knew her duty: open heart met open hands when it came

1930  to Geats. She paid attention, made trenchant thrift

  feel more generous than lessers’ over-gifts.

  Nothing like Modthryth, oh shit, remember her?

  The people’s princess, an utter criminal.

  Bro, if anyone even looked at her in daylight,

  save her own overlord, she’d deal that man death—

  order him bound, each shackle tightened to torture,

  his sentence resounding from on high: sword-selection,

  then the entertainment, a public flaying, arteries spurting,

  gore, good riddance. She may have been beautiful,

1940  she may have been royal, but can we agree here?

  Why the brutality?! Pretty peace-weavers aren’t meant

  to claw, bringing good men down just for looking,

  innocent oglers sent deathward. Talk about inflated offenses!

  Right. Then Hemming’s son became Modthryth’s husband,

  and she shifted mysteriously. Drinkers spilt a different song—

  a bathroom-wall graffiti-shrift. Marriage mellowed

  the monster. She sea-changed when she was Offa’s wife.

  Everyone liked her better. Her father had traded her,

  hauled her onto a ship, dowry-gowned, conveyed her

1950  from her homeland to other shores. Her nature

  changed when she got free of her family.

  She became queenly; before she’d been the worst.

  She sat on her new throne, famed for kindness,

  loyalty, devotion to her king. And him? Bro, obviously

  he was the best, a king among kings, and moreover,

  the greatest man who ever lived, if that’s not overkill,

  so it’s no wonder she learned morals under his hand,

  Offa’s honored wife, as he ruled over his lands.

  From that duo, as proof, if needed, came a good son,

1960  Eomer, grandson of Garmund, Hemming’s kinsman,

  well-met to all warriors, reliable in combat,

  and a keeper of comrades.

  Back to Beowulf, a hero himself, marching with his men

  across the sand, crossing the sprawling strand,

  the tidal flats and salted shores, making haste

  beneath brightness as the sky-candle shone hard

  from the south. They hurried blur-fast overland

  to where, rumor had it, their youthful king,

  killer of Ongentheow, protector of his own clans,

1970  was handing out booty in his honored hall.

  That Beowulf was back, was shouted man to man,

  so Hygelac knew it, even as his warrior made his way

  through the gates and into the hall, war-kin to the king

  and killer captain, well and willing.

  The hall was cleared and the king awaiting,

  as our boy and his horde marched in.

  Hygelac greeted his warrior in formal speech,

  then sat down head-to-head with him,

  ready to compare notes with his returning

1980  boatman-brother. Hæreth’s daughter wafted wifely

  through the hall, mead-jug held in her hands,

  caring for the companions, pouring a waterfall

  into cups as warriors held them high. Only then

  did Hygelac begin to question his comrade, calmly,

  commandingly, to glean the story of the war-Geats,

  and take the tale for his own hall-history.

  “Holy hell, Beowulf, how’d it go out there?

  You left with hardly a word, and hied yourself

  overwater to defend a hall not your home: Heorot.

1990  And Hrothgar? Did you help him? We know his woes,

  and to be honest, I thought them insoluble.

  I’ve been mourning you in advance, dreading news

  of your death. As you may recall, I begged you

  to let the Danes do their own damn dirty work.

  It’s them who began a blood feud with Grendel,

  and them who should end it. Well, thank God

  you’re home, whatever horror

  happened at Heorot.”

  Beowulf, descendant of Ecgtheow, began:

2000  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard what went down,

  Hygelac. It was proud; already written

  into poems. Grendel and I slammed each other

  in the very hall he’d been harrowing, murdering

  medal-Scyldings, ripping hearts from their holds,

  all of which, not to jump ahead, he got whipped

  into eternity for. Grendel will never have a single son

  to brag on his daddy’s battles, to tell the tale

  of our night-fight, no matter whether any of his

  awful line manage to live through a shifting

2010  civilization. Lemme lay it out now.

  When I got to Denmark, I sped to Hrothgar’s hall

  and presented myself, giving cred and clan.

  Once he knew who I was, and what I’d come to do,

  he stationed me on a bench between his own sons

  and threw a raucous feast for me. I’ve never seen

  any company drunker or more delighted.

  ‘More mead, men!’ The queen herself came through,

  that pretty peace-pleader, and gave out gifts

  to bolster courage—a war-torc for this warrior—

2020  before she snuggled up beside the king.

  Hrothgar’s daughter, too, made the rounds,

  bringing beer to the highest rank, all plank-arranged.

  ‘Freawaru!’ they called, and she circled the room,

  offering up a studded cup. That bangle-bedecked beauty

  is betrothed to Froda’s bereaved son, Ingeld.

  The Scyldings’ king chose him for her husband,

  Hrothgar hoping, kingdom-keeper that he is,

  that sending his precious daughter to fuck his foe’s son

  will fix the fatherly feud: heal bitter hearts and bandage

2030  weeping wounds. But spears seldom sleep for long

  when a ruler’s fallen, no matter how perfect the princess.

  “We can predict how the Heotho-Bards will react,

  every loyal thane there. All will go well, until after

  the wedding, when the young lord stands to dance,

  and dips his Danish bride, her body dripping

  in a dark dowry, ancient garnets bought in blood

  from the Heotho-Bards themselves, sparkling stones

  stripped from beloved ghosts, ring-mail wrought

  by their own ancestors, cherished heirlooms

2040  returning home as Danish dazzle, uncredited.

  An aged uncle, already drunk, swaying, will shout:

  ‘Let’s have a toast!’

  His eyes will focus on rings well known to him,

  triggering black thoughts of massacre, all that killing,

  all those spirits, suddenly filling the hall. Heart pounding,

  he’ll sound the sorrows of his people, begin to prick

  the prince’s conscience, seeking to stir him.

  ‘To our host! And to the sword his father carried

  in his final battle! Don’t tell me you don’t recognize

2050  the prime iron he died swinging, that day he fought

  the Danes. Let me refresh your memory, boy.

  The day Withergyld was murdered, and our heroes fell

  to folly, the day the Scyldings shook the field down,

  scavenging our dead. Now who wears your father’s armor?

  Some assassin’s son, walking into our home-hall,

  shaking sword and status, boasting that he owns us,

  weighted with the wonders you should yourself be wearing.’

  “He won’t stop, but will keep pressing,

  raising the temperature of the room,

2060  until one of the Danish lady’s thanes is slain,

  streaked with crimson, killed for Danish deeds,

  his slayer sprinting out alive, into home territory.

  This will begin it all again. Both sides, vow-bound,

  will break, old thirsts unslaked, a rage rising in Ingeld,

  his love for Freawaru frozen, comforts gone to curses.

  That’s all just to say, sidebar, that the Heotho-Bards

  aren’t to be trusted, their faltering friendship with the Danes

  bridged only by a bride.

  “Now, my main man, let me get back to Grendel,

2070  the story of our clash and crash, everything

  that happened when we two went hand to hand.

  After Heaven’s gem slipped smoothly down to soil,

  he arrived: that froth-fanged foulness,

  that twilight-tormentor, come to attack us

  as we gathered in silent safety in Heorot.

  There, Handsceoh was fated to fall,

  torn from his life, first-cursed on this quest.

  Our beloved brother was beaten and eaten,

  his gory grave Grendel’s gullet. Lemme be clear:

2080  Grendel ate him up. The attacker’s teeth

  were bloody, his face strewn with gobbets,

  his body swollen with evil, and still

  he wasn’t finished feasting, but insisted

  on leaving the golden hall with more harvest.

  Grendel was famous for his heft: he extended hands,

  then, for none other than your boy. He had a huge sack

  hanging from his shoulder, stitched with sinew,

  clasped with clever workings, crafted of twisted

  dragon skins. Grendel knew nothing of us,

2090  but this wrath-wanderer wanted to stuff

  Beowulf and his boys into that sack, abduct us.

  That shit wasn’t happening. The moment I stood

  to face him, my rage evident, Grendel was a goner.

  I’d be talking too long if I got into every detail

  of the battle, how I paid him in pain for wrongs

  done to Danes. Suffice it to say, I won you honor,

  my king, and the Geats as well. Even though Grendel

  got loose and lived, suckling at survival’s sweetness

  a little longer, his right arm stayed in Heorot

2100  holding the door, amputated, and he limped,

  anguished, to the mere, where he dove

  and drowned in despair.

  “The Dane-lord rewarded me for my life-risking

  with piles of gold and heaps of heirlooms,

  once the sun was up. All of us at table,

  primed for entertainment—singers and story-slingers.

  An ancient Scylding, steeped in the history of

  his people, told tales of the early days.

  Sometimes one of the men touched harpstrings,

2110  recounting his life story, and other times the king himself

  offered up an awesome riff, while in turn the grimmest

  among us, scarred and wizened, would hobble up to tell

  of boyhood battles, then shift to songs of old age,

  overcome by emotion, silvered heart aching

  for the good old golden days.

  “We reveled indoors for hours, joyful and united,

  until nightfall came stalking us, a shadowy reaper.

  Uninvited, she appeared, a dame made of damage.

  Grendel’s mother slinking out of dark, formatted for fury,

2120  avenging her son and bringing ruin back to the room.

  Grief and death-theft had possessed her, and she came

  to find the Geats who’d found her Grendel. She marched

  for blood, a rebel warrior entering private premises, and

captured

  a counselor, Æschere, the king’s closest and wisest.

  In the morning, there was no body to burn, no corpse,

  nothing at all to call back his memory in smoke,

  nor limbs to light for love. She’d borne his flesh away

  and hidden it in the darkness under the mountain

  and rushing waters, her mere-morgue.

2130  Hrothgar was broken by this blow, worse than any other,

  his scars reopened by razors. The king begged me—

  yes, begged, and he named you, too—to go after her,

  to pursue her underwater to avenge his loss,

  and if I did it, to gain even greater glory. He named his price,

  and it was done. Into icy waters I went, diving deep to meet

  my match, and found her, raging. I took her and she took me, too,

  hand to hand, woman to man, water roaring red,

  splitting the current with color, until at last, in her own hall,

  I beheaded Grendel’s mother with a sword too substantial

2140  for anyone else’s swing. I barely left with my life, and only that

  by Fate’s choice, but when I returned to the surface,

  Halfdane’s heir, bearer of men, gave me a stocked store

  of his own hoard, gifts golden and godly.

  “Thus Hrothgar acted as ever he has, paying me

  for my sacrifice and more, letting me set my wages

  in goblets and goods. From Hrothgar’s heirlooms

  comes Hygelac’s inheritance. I’ve brought these gifts

  to you, your majesty, and I give them willingly.

  You’re the man I seek to impress.

2150  I’ve got no other family left, none close.

  Your kindness is my comfort.”

  Beowulf called for the boar’s head standard, the battle-crested

  helmet, the grizzled gray mail-shirt, and the ferocious

war-sword,

  and wrought an account of their provenance.

  “When Hrothgar gave me all these precious things,

  brilliant leader, he bade me bring you words as well,

  to explain why they’re favors fit for kings.

  He told me this had belonged to his older brother,

  King Heorogar, but he’d kept it locked away,

2160  never giving it over to inheritance, not even to

  his son Heoroweard, despite his worthiness,

  despite his loyalty. Now it’s yours to bear in health!”

  Bro, here’s what I know: four horses were brought in next,

  presented to the king. Beowulf bestowed those bays,

  along with their armor, each one an impossible gift

  of blood and girth. This is how it should be between

  birth-kin, no plots, no plans for plunder,

  no conspirers crafting catastrophe, no one

  sculpting death where life should be.

2170  The warrior-king, Beowulf’s uncle, was lucky

  to have the loyalty of his nephew, and he carried

  Beowulf’s burdens in return.

  I heard Beowulf brought Hygd the golden torc

  gifted him by Wealhtheow, and with it, three horses

  harnessed similarly in gold, sleek and graceful. The queen

  wore her reins well, her breast radiant with heroic history.

  Thus did Beowulf bring his bravery to bear—

  he’d battled like a brawler, but could hold court

  with kings and queens, too, never punching down,

2180  never mocking drunk comrades, never locking himself

  in combat with those whose strength couldn’t stand.

  He kept his stones controlled, and when he rolled,

  he rolled only with equals. Mind, he hadn’t had this status

  when he left, a boy who men looked on as low—

  the Geats thought him lazy, and even their lord

  had never given him span on the beer-bench, believing

  he was all bluster, no badass, thinking his position came

  from privilege, not class. But now? Everyone who’d thought

  Beowulf was just a wayward boy got taught.

2190  The king, war-bringer, protector of men, ordered

  Hrethel’s heirloom brought in, and that splendid

  sword, gem-clotted, the best by far in the treasury,

  he lay in Beowulf’s lap. Then more! He gave

  his man seven thousand hides of land,

  and a hall of his own, into which he could

  place his throne. They both already had land

  from their fathers, ancestral sway, but now,

  a better way: land came from Hygelac

  to his new right hand, Beowulf.

2200  Later days were cloudier. A war began.

  Hygelac was dead by then, his shield yielding

  no safety for his son, Heardred, against the war-wired

  Scylfings, who patrolled, hunting for the young Geat-king.

  They found him surrounded by his soldiers, slew them,

  and after that, boys—well, you know.

  The rings rolled down to Beowulf. He caught the kingdom

  he’d rejected, and held tight to it for fifty winters,

  before he, too, found himself an old man,

  the gray guardian of Geatland.

2210  Across a star-studded sky, in deepest dark one night,

  a dragon ranged, unchecked. She was a scar-skinned

  warrior, long accustomed to shadow-soaring by moonlight,

  defending her claim, hoarding in her own high hall.

  No man knew the way into the dragon’s cliff-top cocoon,

  but a thief stumbled through a split in the stone,

  and retrieved a gem-glistering goblet. He robbed

  her of nothing else, just the cup—but.

  Up she rose, raging, grieving, though to cry out

  was to confess she’d been stripped while sleeping.

2220  This country, these creatures, would feel her fire.

  The instigator hadn’t intended to ignite Armageddon;

  he’d merely slunk into a cave, and found a crypt. This slave,

  seeking safety from a miserly master, became the spark

  that smoked a primeval monarch out. He spelunked into

yawning dark,

  and gripped a wall. Instead of clammy stone, he felt a kiln;

  instead of granite, gold. Whose forbidden hold was this?

  What had he provoked? He wrapped trembling fingers around

  the first small, shining thing he found, and fled. For the vault

  was more than a treasury: piles of preciouses nested

2230  beneath the coils of a snoring serpent. It was a bed.

  Bro, no one living knows the name of the lost soul

  who’d interred those spoils long ago, burying the grave

  goods of a wealthy race. Death had snatched them all

  into a sack and lifted them out of existence, leaving

  only one, this ghost-custodian, mourning

  over friends, family, foes alike. He had no future

  for himself in mind, nothing but a dead end.

  Left with only this haul of tomb-treasure,

  nothing to spend it on, no joys left to consume,

2240  he attempted to wring pleasure from his stint

  as the richest man alive. There was a barrow

  already built, high on a headland above the sand,

  secured by waves against trespass. The last man

  climbed the slope, carrying his collection, all the things

  worth saving, all the wonders he could find. He

  organized the bounty, performing final rites.

  “Hold these, Mother Earth. Men have lost

  their grip. We mined this metal from you,

  forged it for fighting, ruined ourselves warring

2250  against one another. Man by man, we gave our souls

  over to spite, lives flashing before our eyes, farewells

  to all our hopes. I’m alone here now, no sword-bearer,

  no cup-keeper, no hall-sweeper. My flock’s

  flown south without me. This hard helmet will lose

  its filigree—there’s no polisher waiting

  to keep our battle-masks gleaming. Everyone

  once waking now dreams. This breastplate

  endured many battles—bruised by blades, smashed

  by shields—now it’ll be red dust, along with its owner.

2260  Metal shells rest here without their warriors.

  Now there are no heroes, no soothing music,

  no harp, no hawk soaring through hall,

  no swift horses trampling green grass.

  We existed; now we’re extinct.”

  And so the last survivor mourned, making his way

  from emptiness to emptiness, listing his sins one by one,

  wandering the world woefully, until death came

  welling in, to wash him from the rocks.

  Afterward, an ancient collector soaring through

2270  the starry hours happened past, and saw a golden

  glyph from above. A flame-tongued one who sought

  out strongholds as she scourged, a slip-skinned dragon,

  tagging the sky with flaming sigils. Farmers kept vigil,

  dreading her smoky signs. She was hungry for hoards,

  tempted by temples, and every burial site

  was known by her to hold heathen hopes,

  howling for a new owner.

  There she dwelt, this nameless fear, for three hundred years,

  padlocking her hall with all her limbs until the infiltrator

2280  infuriated her. That slave skittered to the owner’s home

  with the stolen goblet, and gifted it to get mercy.

  Thus, the hold of the old gold-get was known,

  her vault cataloged, her ring-hoard wrung.

  For the master clocked what he was looking at,

  a treasure protected by time.

  At once, the dragon woke, choking on fury.

  She huffed her hoard, winding herself around it,

  revulsion kindling within her, the sour scent

  of an enemy man, the footprints of a plunderer,

2290  who’d blundered past her sleeping skull and seen

  her secret dreaming-place. We all know stories

  like this one: a man unmarked by Fate may sometimes

  cloak himself in God’s grace, passing close to monsters,

  unbeheld. The hoard-holder fine-toothed the ground,

  fire-foraging for the man who’d invaded her bedchamber.

  Wide she circled, planning his disemboweling,

  claw-mapping every inch of wilderness,

  though no man there to capture. She imagined

  a wild battle, flexed rapturously, then undulated

2300  into her lair to hunt again for the missing cup,

  only to rediscover the telltale evidence:

  someone had desecrated her delights.

  Teeth gritted, she ticked until nightfall,

  that guardian of old gold and haunted history,

  her urge toward murder more intense by the moment.

  Eventually, ecstatic, she outlasted the light.

  Into darkness she emerged and put the world on blast,

  roaring into the sky, a comet of catastrophe.

  Villagers in the vicinity felt her attack first,

2310  their lands blackened, but soon it would be their

  lord and treasure-giver suffering.

  The dragon swooped low and spat flame, destroying

  both manor and hovel, scrawling red RSVPs in the sky.

  The winged wringer had no time for survivors. She skywrote

  her grievances, then rewrote them roughly in land-fire

  from end to end of Geat-realm, her scaly helm

  shining as she sang insults from the clouds.

  Back to her ridge she whipped as the sun showed itself,

  slithering into her gold-stock, locking herself away.

2320  She’d exhaled upon their ground, and now they burned,

  black blood, bah! She slept, trusting in human frailty

  to keep her lair unmolested. That trust would turn

  to dust, like everything.

  Soon Beowulf received a blistering missive.

  His own hall, his heart-home, had combusted.

  He’d been ghost-throned by the skyborne gold-holder.

  To the good man, this region’s ring-giver, this was

  distress unbearable—punishment, perhaps, from the Lord.

  Unjust? He worried, weighed it: Had he broken

2330  old covenants? Unwarded his soul? Doubt dawned

  as he considered deeds long done, sins kept secret.

  He wasn’t used to feeling insecure.

  Meanwhile, the firedrake raked coast-to-coast

  with claws, charred gilded Geatland without pause,

  crimson blazes and black billows, until

  the old war-king woke to action, plotting vengeance

  on the stranger. The foremost warrior projected

  for his own protection a myth-worthy shield,

  made entirely of iron. He knew no forest-gift

2340  could defend him; his safety lay in smithy.

  Linden couldn’t withstand lightning. Though Beowulf

  didn’t predict he’d die in this fight, he and the dragon both,

  he’d always known that Fate could fuck a fighter up,

  no matter the hoards he’d held, no matter the luck he’d had.

  The ring-collector was too proud to bring a war-band,

  to march an army against the firmament-flier.

  His plan would be his pyre—he imagined the dragon

  a dimwit, clocking neither her courage nor her grit.

  I mean, he had, for years, been up in it,

2350  persevering through pain and danger,

  countless grim battles since he’d saved

  Hrothgar and Heorot, since he’d rushed

  Grendel and all his kin, knocking that

  damned family to the mat. One of the worst

  of those hand-to-hand hells had been the one

  when Hygelac, Geat-king, closest comrade,

  perished in Friesland. His skin became sheath

  for a sword, his skull a cup overflowing

  with blood. Beowulf saved himself

2360  only by swimming, fleeing the massacre

  by sea, bearing back as he swam thirty suits

  of armor torn from corpses he’d created.

  The Hetware had no joy of him, hiding their heads

  beneath their own splintering linden, as Beowulf

  ground them into cold sand.

  Few saw home again.

  Solitary, salt-scourged, he swam screaming

  over open ocean, Ecgtheow’s son repatriating

  grief-stricken to his homeland. Hygd tried

2370  to quicken him with the throne, offering him gold,

  gemstones, a potent position, a life less lonely.

  Her own son she didn’t trust to govern,

  to keep borders trussed against deploying hordes,

  now his daddy was dead. She couldn’t convince

  Beowulf to step over Heardred, nor consent

  to come to her bed, but instead he offered

  his counsel to the boy-king, until he was

  man enough to rule the Weder-Geats himself.

  Soon thereafter, exiles appeared over the salt-highway,

2380  Ohthere’s sons, who’d raised a coup against their

  old wave-king, Onela. He was the ruler of the

  Scylfings, had given gold from his kingdom seat,

  was master of their mead-hall. Heedless, Heardred

  received the refugees, and traded his life for it,

  his reception repaid in regrets. A fatal flash of Onela’s sword,

  and Hygelac’s line was ended. The Swede-king, satisfied,

  set off to the briny boulevard, and Beowulf, bereaved,

  ascended the Geat-throne, in grief, never surrendering

  his reluctance to become the ruler.

2390  That was a good king.

  In later days, our man paid the killers in kills,

  avenging his dead prince by befriending Eadgils,

  the last of the Swedish rebel sons. Beowulf sent him

  an army of seaborne swords, and tied a scarlet ribbon

  around the blood feud, exterminating Onela.

  And so, Ecgtheow’s heir inherited a complement of king’s

  qualifiers, dangers rare, treasures tragic, constant proofs

  of courage, excelling at every impossibility,

  until the day came for him to kill the dragon.

2400  The Geat-king rode with eleven companions,

  firing himself into fury as he hunted the lair’s location.

  By then he’d found the smoking gun, the embezzlement

  that’d stoked the dragon’s rage. The gilt cup had been

  brought to him by the burglar who’d begun this,

  and that thief, on life-tilt, became the thirteenth man,

  rife with regrets, compelled to guide an expedition

  back to the scene of his crime. The unwilling guest

  of the king led the rest, in safety of daylight,

  to the hide he’d strayed into, a golden grave

2410  near salt shoals and trembling tides. Piled

  inside, like scales, were mounds

  of etched metal, detailed by the dead,

  along with a veteran guardian,

  who now never slept. She was the

  sole barrier to entry, but burrowed beneath

  the earth as she was, there was no simple way

  to bring death to her den.

  The old king fell to his knees on the cliff point

  and willed good fortune upon the Geats he’d ruled,

2420  those who’d sat fireside, warmed by his gold.

  Stricken, suddenly unsteady, he foresaw his fate

  in the fog, shrouded but certain. For a moment,

  he felt for his old foes, fen-bound, embarking alone.

  Soon, soon, his own lease would expire,

  evicting him from hall, hearth, and home.

  Beowulf, Ecgtheow’s own son, manned up,

  mastered himself, said it straight:

  “I lived whole lives in my youth, endless combat,

  great wars. I remember every moment, even now.

2430  When I was seven, my father sent me out to sleep

  in the king’s house. He dropped me on a new daddy,

  King Hrethel, who kept me safe, opened his hands,

  treated me, a fosterling, like his own sons.

  Never was I less dear to him than Herebeald,

  or Hæthcyn, or even my best-beloved Hygelac.

  The eldest, Herebeald, tumbled into an early grave,

  done in by his brother: Hæthcyn tugged his bone-bow,

  flinging a missile that missed the mark,

  shark-toothed his sibling’s heart, a bloody thorn.

2440  There was no way to mourn for him, no vengeance

  to be had, for what could mitigate the blame?

  Who was left to shame for this

  heart-thieving? Nobody.

  “It’s the same sort of sorrow when a man outlives

  his son, sees him climb the gallows and swing,

  sentenced, justly, for crimes against the king.

  The father hollers out a sob to rapturing ravens,

  witnesses his boy swallowing dust, unable to plead

  his case. No settlement in silver can buy a child back

2450  from the gods of air. The father awakens disgraced,

  in despair thereafter, knowing his inheritor’s been

  erased. He has no verve, no urge to visit beds,

  no wish to father a new son, now his firstborn’s dead.

  He stares in sorrow at his child’s empty room, hears

  the dreary wind that habits there now. His hall is silent,

  cheerless, hungry, hearth without coals, riders sagging

  in their saddles, heroes hidden, where once singers sang

  and harps were fingered, where a yardful of sons were brothers.

  Abandoned on Earth, left to live alone, with only sins

2460  to number, the gray king retreats to slumber, moaning dirges.

  What son? What wife? What life? What song?

  “This was Hrethel, after Herebeald was dead.

  He couldn’t bait the killer with blood-feud rules,

  nor hate him for his wrongs. The murderer

  was not his preferred son, but still, he was next

  in the now blot-blurred line. Hrethel walked away

  from the world, losing the plot, heart-tortured,

  stone-faced. He marched alone into the flickering

  light of God, leaving what he had left to leave:

2470  bones, strongholds, and cold sod to his sons,

  as a rich man must.

  “That old man was dust, but his old wars

  remained. Swedes and Geats got in

  each other’s faces, and fought ferociously;

  Hrethel dead, dark desires rising. Ongentheow’s sons

  banded together, full of war-wrath. On and on

  they came, keeping no peace from overseas,

  but twisting knives and words into ambush at

  the hill of Hreosas. My own killer-kin avenged that,

2480  sing it with me, you all know the story, but there

  was a cost: we lost Hæthcyn, Geat-lord,

  in that bloodbath, and Hygelac,

  my own Hygelac, drew his sword

  the next morning. He brought it down

  on Ongentheow, his brother’s slayer,

  splitting his helmet, sending the old Swede

  to his death, drained, the dirt drinking his blood.

  Even his leathern fists, feud-fortified,

  failed in fending off his fate.

2490  “And me? I fought to repay the rings Hygelac

  gave me, sword swift, debts edited in red.

  He gave me greensward, rolling hills, a home of my own.

  He had no need to seek any superhero among

  the Gifthas, Swedes, or Spear-Danes, no hired merc

  to secure his six. I was always there, his constant

  companion, marching ahead, first to charge.

  I was the soldier who kept my king shredding,

  the warrior who kept his queen wed. I was his man, until—

  Well. I’m not dead yet. I’ll lead while taking

2500  my last breath, as long as this sword stands by, even if

  I have to end with death. It’s been my second in every battle,

  since the very beginning, when I slew Dæghrefn,

  the Hugas warrior, in a duel before both our armies.

  He brought no hoard back to his ring-lord, that flag-waver,

  but instead fell bravely, not to my blade, but to my boldness.

  I wrung that man to death, my fists deep in his rib cage,

  my hands in his lungs, his bone-vault broken.

  Now I’ll use all I have—sword, fists, sharpened edge,

  honed heart—to engage the snake for this gold-heap.”

2510  Beowulf blasted his last boast:

  “I laid my life down on the daily when I was your age.

  Now, gray guardian though I am, I’ll show you

  how it’s done. I’ll kill this creature if it’s the last thing

  I do. If it’s no coward, it’ll come out of its cave

  and face its challenger.”

  He eyeballed each of his men, power-privileged

  warriors, for the last time:

  “I’d go in without weapons, as I always have,

  if this weren’t a dragon. I’d do it like a man, kill it

2520  barehanded, like I killed Grendel so long ago.

  But mortal skin can’t contend with a flame-spitting fiend,

  and so I go in sword-armed, taking shield and mail-shirt.

  I won’t surrender when I see the beast, but fight it by the wall,

  and God will dictate which brawler wins. Get a good seat, boys,

  and look to the sky: your job’s to watch this flier fall.

  I’m decided, don’t defy me. I’ve no more shade

  to throw on this serpent-raider. Let the winner win,

  let the loser get bent. My men, stay here

  atop the barrow. Wait with your war-weapons.

2530  Watch and see who wins—who can suffer more,

  who can be worse wounded, who can survive fire.

  This is my fight. I don’t ask for intervention—

  none of you are strong enough to take this thing,

  to try to stake your manhood on doing a dragon.

  I’ll be the one winning the gold, my bravery

  the broadest, and if not, boys, this’ll be

  the battle that breaks your king.”

  Beowulf stood tall, his iron shield upraised, armored

  in his own fame, his helmet, his mail-shirt, his faith

2540  firm only in Fate, a grit-god bearing brute weight,

  beneath the rocky ledge. No trembling in his hands, but

  a strong salute. He’d survived worse than this, a veteran

  of foreign wars, of battle-betrayals, of heartbreak, flung

  himself from cliffs over and over, surfaced singing.

  There: a stone arch, and there a stream rushing from

  the barrow’s entry, a boiling geyser, furious fumes

  and flames. No one could live long in there, not

  without burning. Beowulf knew he couldn’t fight

  inside the hoard-lair. The dragon’s heat was horrific.

2550  He worked his wrath into a roar. The main man of the

  Weder-Geats bellowed into the blast zone, calling forth

  his foe. Under the stone, warmth turned to war—

  an echoed challenge bounced, and the dozing dragon

  lifted her head, alert with fury. A human voice!

  There’d be no negotiation, no settlement in metal.

  Fire walked first, dragon’s breath surging

  out of the stones. Earth quaked as she rose

  and roared in return. The challenging mortal

  raised his shield as she emerged, a whipping wraith,

2560  a coil convulsing overhead, fangs, claws, and scales

  railing against robbery, ready for war.

  Beowulf’s sword was already drawn, that razor edge,

  that razing heirloom. Each of them, living, was

  intolerable to the other, and in fury, they fell to it.

  Feet planted, the people’s provider held firm

  behind his shield, even as the serpent swirled,

  twisting and unfurling, her scales flame-swathed,

  flinging herself hard at Fate, a flexing firework

  aimed straight at the king. His shield shirked

2570  its duty, keeping him safe for only moments.

  The famous warrior was, for the first time, naked.

  Another first: Beowulf had never before been quarry,

  God-snubbed, Fate-forsaken, his glorious, premeditated

  victory unwritten. The Geat-lord raised a sooty fist

  and punched in panic at armored scales, as his sword

  slid, twisting against stony bones, his fang useless

  against volcanic dangers. It dawned on the king

  that he was afraid, his weapons forged without sorcery,

  his defenses all man-made. The hoard-guard rippled

2580  in rage, her mouth a fusillade of flames, so furious

  was she to feel even the dullest blade. Her war-lanterns

  lit. Beowulf knew better than to expect victory.

  His sword, unmatched until this hour, splintered

  where it should’ve slain. His ageless iron

  had never been conquered, but now?

  Ecgtheow’s son found himself engaged in ebbing:

  loaded into a rattling cart and exiled

  to a darker country, though unwilling

  to go easy in the loss of long-held lodging.

2590  Everybody’s gotta learn sometime.

  Back at it again, the two battled furiously,

  the dragon renewed, rapturous, inhaling,

  uncoiling afresh. The man who’d been king

  was wreathed in flame; he knew his end was near.

  No one was coming, no seconds running to serve

  or save him, no ring-raised warriors—those men,

  that former family, were sprinting from his screams,

  racing for safety, off the barrow and into the trees.

  But one man felt something, a bond that bound him

2600  back. He was kin and could not leave his king

  to die alone. His name was Wiglaf, and he was

  Weohstan’s son, that righteous warrior,

  that Scylfing kinsman of Ælfhere.

  Wiglaf watched his king writhe beneath

  the heat of his flame-battered helmet,

  remembering the rings that king had given him,

  his comfortable home among the Wægmundings,

  his halcyon holdings and heritage, come down

  from his daddy. He could not run with the rest.

2610  He raised his linden shield and lifted his sword,

  a blade with lineage of its own, a weapon come

  from Eadmund, Ohthere’s son, that exiled,

  friendless one that Weohstan had killed

  in combat. He’d borne his victim’s arms

  back to the dead man’s kin: his engraved

  helmet, woven chain mail, and sword,

  giant-forged. Onela returned the gear,

  ring-gift to a kin-killer, though slain Eadmund

  had been his nephew. Weohstan held the hostile hoard

2620  for the rest of his life, helm, sword, shirt,

  until his son came of age and needed metal

  to prove his worth. When he was dying,

  gray and aged, embarking into the unknown,

  he showered Wiglaf in battle-bounty,

  Geat-witnessed. Now was the young warrior’s

  first chance to align himself with his lineage,

  to fight for his father and for his ring-lord.

  He had a strong spirit, and his inheritance

  was sharp as ever, a thing the serpent would learn,

2630  when soon they met.

  Repulsed at their reluctance, Wiglaf sought

  to convince his companions:

  “Bro! Listen! Remember in the mead-hall,

  we swore to our lord we’d stand by him,

  swore to our ring-giver we were worth

  his investment? That we’d bleed in our

  battle-gear, given us for fighting, not strutting?

  He favored us from among the flock,

  gave us gifts, called us more than just mill-run

2640  warriors. I know he insisted he climb

  this hill alone, the head of our country,

  the best of men, but it’s time for us to defy him!

  Get in the zone. He’s falling!

  Do we watch him drop? No! Do we wait

  for his heart to stop, for him to die? No!

  Beowulf needs backup! On attack!

  Let’s save our savior from those flames!

  I’d rather burn in a pyre alongside my ring-giver

  than run home, arms untested against any enemy.

2650  My God, hear me!

  It beggars belief that we wouldn’t

  even seek to slay this serpent, that we

  wouldn’t try to tear our prince from its teeth.

  Men, I know, if you don’t, he deserves better

  than dragonfire, undefended

  by his own. We’re sworn to go together!

  No? Well? Then I’m going in alone,

  though my sword’s nothing next to its skin.

  I’ll bring my king my shield, helmet,

2660  shirt, and sword.”

  He sprinted through fire, appearing armored

  alongside his lord, shouting:

  “Beowulf, I’m beside you! You’ll dare to risk it all,

  and fight to the finish, as you did when you were young.

  You won’t be bested while your heart beats!

  Your fame won’t diminish! Your history’s here!

  Be strong, my king! Your boy’s with you in this fight.

  Be your country’s shield, as I battle on your right.”

  The dragon stanched any imminent surrender in herself.

2670  Her wrath rekindled, her own unearthly serpent song.

  She brought forth fire, blasting it at those nuisance

  humans, filthy, false-scaled, and intrusive.

  She scintillated sword and shield, flash-burning

  Wiglaf’s lindenwood to ash.

  His mail-shirt was like linen to her, so he ducked

  under his kinsman’s shield, still fighting. His king

  shared that steel umbrella, once the young warrior

  stood beside him, showered in sparks. Invigorated

  by the thought of victory, the king used all his strength

2680  to strike, lunging at possibility. Nægling was the victim

  of the swing, snapping like a straw. Beowulf’s

  blood-tested blade was wrecked by dragon skin.

  It was not our man’s wyrd to be assisted by sword,

  no, not by sharp edges, nor ancient iron, and his

  gray blade gave way under too strong

  a swing, shattered by too straight a stroke.

  Beowulf got no win from that weapon.

  The third round sounded. The fire-breather

  rallied, rocketing from her corner, and diving

2690  at that warrior, driving needle-fangs into his throat,

  shaking him like a captured flag. Beowulf

  went limp, his body wound-worn,

  drenched in his own dark lifeblood.

  Here’s what I know: Wiglaf, Weohstan’s son

  saw his king collapsing, and showed his bloodline’s

  bravery and Geat-born grit. His fighting hand

  was singed as he dodged the dragon’s head,

  but he drove lower, spurning safety to spit

  the serpent’s stomach with his ogre-etched sword.

2700  With that blade in her belly, she couldn’t belch flame.

  Her fires sputtered. Now Beowulf, with his last strength,

  drew a dagger from his hip, a lethal hunting thorn,

  and dipped it into the dragon’s side, wounding her fatally:

  blade met body, a bleak and bitter fight.

  Together, these two slew their foe, courage conquering

  flight, and that duo, kin by blood and bone, did it

  side by side. Every warrior should step up to serve

  his lord, throw down regardless of odds.

  This was the last battle for the king, though,

2710  his final victory a grim one.

  The old warrior’s wounds wept the dragon’s legacy:

  scalding spit set by poisoned fangs, seething into sepsis.

  Beowulf knew he was a goner. His chest heaved

  with each heartbeat. He slumped against the wall,

  doomed but dignified, admitting defeat,

  easing his broken body down.

  He fixed his eyes on the stone of the hall:

  arches curving over tall columns, worked in an age

  before he’d lived, by giants long gone under.

2720  And his new battle-brother, better than any of those others,

  hand-washed his king’s wounds, serving sweetness

  even in this sorry state, unhelming him,

  bathing him, bringing him peace.

  Beowulf spoke, mortally wounded. Despite the doom

  diminishing his light, he unlocked his word-vault. His time

  was waning. His brain was all he had left; in it, an ultimate

  ring-gift to bequeath. Death drew close and knelt beside him.

  “If I’d ever had a son, I’d be giving him my armor now,

  but I never fathered one, never gave my blood to an heir,

2730  and so this death is final. I’m the last of me.

  I’ve been ruling here, fearless, for fifty winters.

  I was the man. No neighbor came to war—my name

  kept enemies at bay, and no one could scare me. I lived

  in peace, and released my lease on battle, knowing

  I had nothing to prove. I wasn’t ambitious, never threw shade,

  never took shit, never spat curses when I felt wronged,

  but sat on the throne and weighed my people’s woes

  and wishes. I have to say, I did okay. Now, as I lie

  dying, doomed by dragon, no one can claim I was a bad king.

2740  God can’t call me a murderer, for I slew none of my kin.

  My boy, get a move on, and bring your lord’s last request.

  I want to see what prize I won of this. Wiglaf, go under

  that stone, past where the dragon lies, wickedly wounded,

  her treasure targeted and taken. Climb into her hoard

  and count my gold. Hurry. I want to hold it. I want to know

  what I did, to look at my winnings, my gilded gifts,

  the grave-goods of a gone people. I want to know it was worth it.

  My dying will be easier if I see what I died to do:

  garner a giant’s treasure in exchange for my life.

2750  I’ll let go then, of all my holdings,

  my throne, my carefully guarded bones.”

  Bro, here’s how the story goes: Weohstan’s son

  went directly, obeying without question

  the command of his dying king. Still dressed

  in heavy vines of mail, he ran to bring his man

  satisfaction, ducking below the stony ledge, into

  the barrow. He was victorious, battle-brightened,

  and saw with shining eyes a trove of hoarded

  Heaven, riches beyond compare, tapestries, piles of gold

2760  heaping the floor. That old moon-splicing serpent’s lair

  was full of ancient pitchers for pouring peace, goblets,

  cups, corroding without women to offer them up. Helmets

  red with rust, artfully twisted armbands without arms to hold—

  and oh, all that old gold, so long concealed, so long inviolate,

  wriggling back into the earth, despite the designs

  of those who’d hidden it!

  Wiglaf spied a standard, too, entirely woven of gold,

  suspended on the wall over the rest, more delicately

  wrought than any cloth he’d seen, glowing with illumination

2770  of its own, lighting the cave so he could inspect,

  itemize the collection, imagine it emerging.

  The dragon was gone entirely, no sign she’d ever slept

  there, done to death by dagger, and driven

  into darkness. Then, so I’m told, that man plunged

  his hands into the hold, that ancient hoard of giant’s gold,

  and filled his arms with feast-gifts, plates, goblets,

  anything, everything his heart desired, taking also

  the standard, dragging the dragon’s lantern down

  from the wall. I mean, bro, the dragon was dead,

2780  the old king’s swing had made that certain—

  the one who’d guarded the glitz, who’d shown her love

  by littering the land with abandoned homesteads

  and burnt beds, who’d made midnight her inferno hour?

  She’d been split into serpent skin.

  Wiglaf made haste, driven by the treasure he carried,

  hoping his lord would still be living, though he’d been

  forced to leave him high and dry. He returned,

  arms full of bounty, to find his king bleeding out,

  pools of red, letting go of life. Wiglaf fell to his knees

2790  to drip water on the king’s lips. The old man tried to speak,

  and the knife-tip of a sentence stabbed from his locked

  lung-vault. He stared at the gold, sorrowing.

  “To God, the King, Eternal Throne-Holder,

  I sing my thanks. That You’ve let me look on this

  before I die, this gold, this get? It’s enough.

  My people lose me, but gain a hoard-gift.

  Say that on the day of my dying, I went hard.

  I traded my life for this. It’s a good bargain.

  My God, watch over my Geats. I’m going.

2800  These people are your people now. Shout

  my last orders—tell my army to build a barrow

  before my body blazes, one like the dragon had,

  high up on the coast. I want it visible, towering

  like a giant’s tooth on Whales’ Cape, so my people

  know I was king, and so seafarers say my name

  daily, nightly, call out ‘Beowulf’s Barrow!’

  as they pass in their tall ships, bound here

  over wild and misty waters.”

  The king unlatched his heavy golden collar,

2810  handing it off to his young defender,

  giving him also his ornate helmet and war-shirt,

  instructing him to wear them well.

  “You’re the end of the line, boy, the last standing

  Wægmunding. Living has killed us all. We’re dustbinned

  by destiny. My courageous clan of noble men have gone

  to ghost. Now I serve at their command.”

  Those were the warrior’s last words. He had no more wisdom,

  no more secrets, before he consigned himself to the pyre,

  the final battle-fire for a body brutally broken. Beowulf’s soul

2820  stepped from his breast to see what it could see.

  It was agony for the would-be savior, so young, to see

  his dear kinsman death-rattling on barren ground.

  The dragon, that deep-dweller, lay dead as well, having done in

  her enemy. She was limp and lifeless, her looping spine

  and scales no longer lolling about piles of gold,

  no longer ring-guarding. Keen-edged blades,

  sweat-hammered and fervently filed, had bitten

  her, broken her of soaring flight, ended her

  adventures, leaving her stiff as a shovel-split

2830  snake, dead in dark dirt beside

  a gilded grave. Never again

  would she soar through a starry

  sky, revel in rising rhapsody, rolling in and out

  of clouds and mist, a raging rainbow, glinting golden.

  She plummeted, Earth-struck, blunted in blissful

  brutality by Beowulf. Hardly in history has there been

  a man born, or so I’m told, who, brawny and brave

  as men may be, would be able to battle such a one,

  to throw himself into her biting breath, or even creep

2840  into her lair for fortune’s sake, and fearlessly find

  the treasure-keeper there, her eyes open, a wonder-ward.

  The ancient hoard had changed ownership now, bought

  by Beowulf’s blood. Both he and his enemy had seen

  the edge of existence, tripped and fallen over it.

  It wasn’t long before the forest-fled retainers

  attempted to regain their status, those ten men

  who’d run for the hills, abandoning their king

  as the winged one was roaring in.

  The cowards, who’d put their blades

2850  behind their backs when he’d needed

  their strength, shambled out of the woods,

  shields lifted, armor still on, to where the old king

  lay collapsed. They found Wiglaf, crumpled beside him,

  heartsick, his shoulder to the shoulder of his lord,

  trying to wake him with water, but it was over.

  There was no will left in Beowulf, no life-spark

  to be ignited. God had decided, as He always does,

  we all know it, and, bro, nobody changes God’s mind.

  The young warrior had words for them, though,

2860  terse words for the cowards who’d abandoned

  their king. Wiglaf, Weohstan’s son, spat severity

  at the soldiers he’d found wanting.

  “Anyone with half a brain’s well aware that this king

  treated us like princes, giving us gifts, the gear

  that guards us even now. He opened his arms, offered all

  who stood in his mead-hall armor: helmets, mail-shirts,

  treasures. He treated us, his thanes, like sons, gave us

  the glories he’d won, but, hey, I guess he had no judgment.

  He threw those gifts away. What a fucking waste,

2870  in time of war, to armor and honor a corps of soldiers

  who’d ignore him when he needed them most.

  Our king had no cause to boast of his fight-family—

  he never saw them fight. God allotted him a blow,

  he forced his blade into the fray, braver than all

  of you put together. I couldn’t keep him safe,

  defending his flank, but God gave me strength

  to swing and help him. At least I, alone among these

  ranks, tried. My sword sank in, the enemy

  was injured, the dragon’s fire-oaths

2880  dimmed, her advances weaker, but I couldn’t save him.

  Too few of you were loyal to our brave lord

  in time of trouble. Well, kiss it all goodbye, boys,

  those treasures you hoarded, those gifts,

  those sparkling, unswung swords, the homes you held

  by kindness of our king. That shit is gone.

  Your families will founder. Your freeholds will fall,

  the moment outland princes hear how you hid yourselves,

  disgraced your king, and let him die undefended.

  Are you warriors or weaklings?

2890  You should kill yourselves rather than live,

  having dealt him this damage.”

  Wiglaf ordered that the battle’s end be shouted out,

  bad tidings brought to the men camped at the ridge,

  retainers and unchosen warriors waiting heavyhearted

  for reports. They’d spent the morning kneeling, nervous

  for their beloved lord, expecting all and any outcomes:

  king’s death, or return of the king.

  The messenger shouted truth, plainly, without hesitation.

  The rider sped to the headland, forecasting for all to hear:

2900  “The people’s prince, the Weders’ lord and love,

  the Geats’ good gold-giver, is gone.

  The king is dead. The dragon did him in,

  but she’s dead, too, stretched beside him,

  an enemy slain by silver stabbing, a knife.

  Beowulf’s sword could not kill her, no matter

  how he tried. Wiglaf is there now, with them both,

  Weohstan’s son, a survivor holding vigil for his dead,

  a warriors’ wake, for both the dear and the detested.

  “Now. Listen up. War’s coming for us,

2910  for this country. Soon our enemies will hear

  our king’s been killed. From sea to sea, everyone

  from Franks to Frisians will mobilize.

  Historic hatreds—the Franks have felt fury

  since Hygelac led a flotilla of warships

  into Friesland, though the Hetware held him there,

  attacked him, and won with woeful odds.

  Our leader, battle-dressed, was taken then,

  his body falling, his army mourning.

  He gave no winnings to his fighting force.

2920  The Merovingians haven’t forgiven us.

  “No kindness will come from the Swedes, either,

  only vow-breaking, peace pacts poisoned.

  Ongentheow, as everyone knows, slew Hæthcyn,

  Hrethel’s boy, at Ravenswood, back when the Geats

  first attacked the battle-Scylfings. Vengeance was swift

  for the Geat attack. Ohthere’s father was ferocious,

  a seasoned, elder general, and he slashed that seafarer,

  Hæthcyn, and repossessed his own wife,

  mother to both Ohthere and Onela, who’d been kidnapped,

2930  golden rings wrung from her fingers. Ongentheow

  wasn’t finished: he pursued his Geatish enemies,

  driving them, panicked and bereft of their leader,

  to Ravenswood, where he and his company

  ran rings around the remnants,

  reminding them how weak they were.

  Through the black hours, he swore at them,

  promising punishments, telling them

  when the sun rose he’d shine his sword

  on selected scalps, and string other soldiers

2940  from the gallows, make them treacle-sweets

  for birds’ beaks. But at dawn,

  when they were despairing,

  they heard the horn of Hygelac,

  and that hero came for them,

  following their trail with troops.

  “The Swedes and Geats battled and plowed

  a bloody path, identifiable for miles,

  and no one, not even fools, could think them

  finished fighting. The old man plotted murder,

2950  and made a move, retreating with his people.

  Ongentheow knew higher ground would help him,

  but he knew, too, that Hygelac was hard—

  famous for his fight skills. The old man

  couldn’t hold long against the sea-warriors,

  not while keeping his wife, children, and followers safe.

  He dammed them in behind sheltering walls,

  but Hygelac’s men breached them, pouring

  into the sanctuary like floodwater, drowning

  camp and confines. Ongentheow stood firm,

2960  gray and proud, but he was trapped, surrounded

  by swords, and Eofor was appointed

  the Swede-king’s judge and jury.

  Wulf, Wonred’s son, rushed the old man

  in rage, and struck him so that blood soaked

  his hair. Still, he did not back down,

  but raised his own sword, and hacked,

  harder than he’d been hit. The Swede-king

  spun and struck, fighting for his people.

  Wonred’s son couldn’t take him,

2970  brave Wulf though he was, and his blows

  glanced off, until Ongentheow split his helmet

  and forced him to flee, falling, head bloodied,

  dazed though not dead. He was hurt, but he held,

  and finally, his brother, Hygelac’s loyal thane,

  Eofor, lifted his own sword, an ancient piece

  etched in ogre runes, and smashed it

  into the old man’s giant-forged helmet,

  slashing past his shield. At last,

  Ongentheow fell, the defender of his realm

2980  done and gone. Everyone ran to assist Wulf,

  to bandage him, and carry him from the field,

  now they were custodians of the bloody mud.

  The walking warrior stripped Ongentheow

  of his gear, his iron mail, his fierce sword,

  his helmet, and ferried all this war-treasure

  to Hygelac, who took the offering,

  and said the giver would be repaid.

  He told the truth, and for their courage,

  Hrethel’s heir, now king of Geats,

2990  gave Eofor and Wulf a hundred thousand

  each in land-gifts and interlocked rings

  of wealth to ratchet them up in status.

  That was a good king.

  None could critique his open hands.

  He also gave over to Eofor

  his only daughter, a bedmate

  to bind him, a kin-bond

  and vow of loyalty.

  “So, to sum it up, the feud with the Swedes

3000  isn’t over, and needs only this blood

  to activate it again, a border-swarm,

  a war walking into Geatland, the moment

  they learn that Beowulf is gone. He’s been

  keeping us safe for decades, counting coffers,

  battening the kingdom against invaders,

  defending his citizens, and all the while

  killing monsters, too. Come now, and hurry,

  men, send him on his journey, pay him

  our respects, and carry our king and ring-giver

3010  to his funerary rites. His pyre will be built—

  heaped with gold for melting, which he won

  with his life. The death-hoard is too heavy

  for our hearts, and it will be burned

  along with him who won it. That gold

  isn’t for decorating followers, not for starring

  the bosoms of young women, or latching in memory

  onto loyal throats. No. Now is a time for mourning,

  for walking downcast the exile’s road,

  gray-garbed and grim, for the king is dead,

3020  his song is silence, his laughter and entertainment

  forgotten. Take down your spears and touch

  that dawn-chilled metal, raise them toward

  a clouded world. No harp music will play

  to call warriors in, but instead we’ll waken

  to the raven, a rush of black wings, telling in raw song

  how she’s watched the wolf and eagle worrying our dead,

  carrion-clawed, competing over the feast.”

  That was the end of the forecast, and the augur

  wasn’t wrong. That messenger delivered it as evenly

3030  as such bad news can be delivered.

  The troop was weeping, but they rose, and went

  in woeful rows to Eagles’ Cape, where, on the cold sand,

  they found their king, soul long spent, that man

  who’d given them everything he had,

  whose rings had warmed their hands.

  It was the end of his epic, the climactic close,

  and Beowulf, their warrior-king, died mighty.

  They saw beside him a wrathful wonder,

  a sky-dragon become ground-ghost. That

3040  flame-spitter, scourge of those coasts,

  had been scathed and sooted by her own song.

  She was fifty feet long, she who’d ruled

  in riving-rapture over their dreaming hours,

  diving through dawns to nest with her treasure.

  Now Death had won her. The wyrm would

  no longer writhe with coins, but with worms.

  Beside her lay the dragon’s dowry:

  grave-good goblets and cups,

  dishes and knives, rust devouring them now,

3050  though they’d spent a thousand winters

  serving the ghosts of powerful men.

  There was a spell on the hoard,

  left by a skeleton tribe, a ward

  that said no man could touch it

  unless God, Glory-Dispenser and Hoarder

  of Humanity, chose a hero and gave permission

  for the treasures to disperse.

  What had he hoped, the man who’d pressed

  his people’s precious things into a cave beneath

3060  the cape? All his keeping came to nothing.

  First, the dragon killed the king, then the king

  killed the dragon. Maybe a man’s mighty,

  maybe he’s known to all as a warrior, but

  Death has his number. No one knows

  when it’ll be called, when he’ll have to walk backward

  out of the beer-hall, exiled from life. So it was for Beowulf,

  when he sought battle in a barrow. Sure, the grave-guardian

  was formidable, but our hero had no notion he was falling

  out of Earth. The curse on that stony womb was set by men

3070  who’d impregnated it with treasure, claiming the confines theirs

  until doomsday; if they couldn’t possess them, no one could.

  Any man who thieved was fated to perish, pushed

  into pagan places, punished forever.

  Beowulf never imagined gold could bring grief.

  He forgot: not all gifts are for getting.

  Wiglaf, Weohstan’s son, took the floor:

  “One man slipped down this slope, he alone deciding,

  but we rest are roped to him: many will suffer

  similar fates now. No counselor could convince

3080  our king, our old and beloved protector,

  that he shouldn’t come at the guardian of this gold,

  but instead let her dream unmolested, drowsing

  alongside her beloved hoard, ground-nested,

  until world’s end. Beowulf’s fate was written, too.

  He opened the barrow and showed us its bounty,

  but he paid in blood and bone—his destiny

  was too tempting, and it drew him here.

  I’ve been inside, counted treasures heaped

  in the dark, given my ticket to voyage, solitary,

3090  under tons of soil. I heaved a heap of heart-won gold

  into my arms, precious beyond compare, and bore it here,

  to share it with my king. I carried all this treasure

  to where Beowulf could view it. He was alive then,

  though fading. He listed his longings,

  his last commands, bade me welcome you,

  man by man, and bid you build a barrow

  great enough to justify his gifts and his going.

  He wanted a memorial built to last, to light the future,

  because of all men who’ve ever lived, he was the strongest,

3100  and the bravest, and the brightest, and the best.

  Now come with me. Let us look on the treasure

  together, piled against the wall. I’ll lead you

  to the dragon’s lair and show you, up close,

  the golden ornaments, so you’ll know

  what your king died for. Meanwhile,

  let the bier be readied, so when we emerge

  we can carry Beowulf to it, lay him upon our love,

  and send him to his new hall,

  under the throne of the Lord.”

3110  Weohstan’s son, courageous as ever, ordered heroes

  and hall-holders to the forest, to chop logs

  and splinter trees. All those men, with men of their own,

  collected kindling for the king.

  “Now he’ll be consumed. Let a white and brilliant flame

  catch our leader. Let the fire take him, our famous man,

  who fought off slings and arrows, who battled armies,

  who never backed down. At last, a shaft sounded his depths,

  pursuing the barb as it primed his heart,

  feathers fanning across his breast.”

3120  The son of Weohstan summoned seven

  of the best men to descend again into darkness,

  and went alongside them, the eighth man,

  entering that cursed place. One soldier,

  the man in front, carried a light.

  No one sought to gamble or grab.

  The guard was gone and the challenge

  was pointless. They carried it all out,

  dazzle-draped, a heaving hoard of gore-bought

  gold, unprotected, and piled it in public.

3130  It was easy to enact their leader’s last wish.

  Then they heaved the dragon over the cliffs

  into the sea, brine-bedding that beast-bride,

  that ring-taker. The endless accursed treasures

  they stacked on a cart, and bore them

  with their dead leader, his skin gone gray

  as a barnacle, to Whales’ Cape.

  The Geats began the pyre, howling over

  Beowulf, their best brother, hanging hoard-helmets

  about it, shields and steel-shirts, as he’d insisted.

3140  They placed him in the center of all this treasure,

  their lost love, and built a bone-fire worthy

  of men’s ends. Storm-smoke shuddered

  from the blaze thick and dark, and the flames

  keened louder than any man’s weeping.

  The whipping winds momentarily stilled,

  until Beowulf’s heart-helm broke. His bones

  blackened as his boys bellowed their grief.

  Then another dirge rose, woven uninvited

  by a Geatish woman, louder than the rest.

3150  She tore her hair and screamed her horror

  at the hell that was to come: more of the same.

  Reaping, raping, feasts of blood, iron fortunes

  marching across her country, claiming her body.

  The sky sipped the smoke and smiled.

  The Geats got down to it, driving the materials

  of the memorial into a mound, a promontory

  crowned with Beowulf’s marker, lit so sailors

  could see it from afar. Ten days it took to make

  their hero’s new home. It contained, walled up,

3160  the remnant of his hoard-gold, wrought to remain

  long after Geats were gone. Rings of kings,

  and torcs, jewels clouded with black smoke,

  the dragon’s darlings—and before her, that lost tribe’s,

  a trove of treasure trespass-cursed from out of earth,

  now gone to ground again. They covered it over

  with gravel, and I hear it’s there still, a leftover lament,

  lacking living hands for spending.

  Twelve thanes, battle-tested sons of worthy men,

  took themselves to horseback and coursed

3170  around the tomb, weeping, wringing

  the old songs from their tongues, dirge-chanting,

  telling the legend of Beowulf, their king.

  His courage, his fury, his wars.

  They did all this grieving the way men do,

  but, bro, no man knows, not me, not you,

  how to get to goodbye. His guys tried.

  They remembered the right words. Our king!

  Lonely ring-wielder! Inheritor of everything!

  He was our man, but every man dies.

3180  Here he is now! Here our best boy lies!

  He rode hard! He stayed thirsty! He was the man!

  He was the man.