That was another chapter. An offender lay in wait, counting sordid 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 to her kingdom, undercountry. 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 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 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 Hale Road. Green Danes were dreaming there. A murdering herd 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 Harrow Hall, hard-honed blades were yanked 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 fin. 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. Batted elsewhere. After the brawl, gift quarters had been appointed him like rings. The Geat was asleep when Grendel's mother struck.
Harrowhall 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 advisor nearest to ear was no more. Door nailed dead. Beowulf, blood-blessed boy, was hauled from sleep, 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, 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. Ashhera is murdered.
Ilmenlof's big brother. And my best friend. My battle bro and ranks were closing, and boarhounds 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 and spirited him from Harrow. Where is she? Who knows? Glutting on garbage 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 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, teeth-rambling and of a height. One is, as far as they can tell, a woman, 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 sinwalker, 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 fin and through it, down into the 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 mall that, at night, is lit with flames in the flood. No one's ever touched the bottom.
No one born of man, anyway. Man can't go in. Even animals, a heath-hopping heart, held to Mir's edge by hounds, would sooner spin on hooves and fight, lower horns and ready itself for death, then 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, Mir 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.
I'll pay in gold. Old and new heirlooms and holdings lately romp. If only you return having done it. Beowulf, son of Hedge Theo, 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.
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 barrel, 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 Shopes 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, and the wise one, master of many, mounted his sparkling steed, his status visible for miles. His army followed on foot, shields raised, pacing murderers'tracks, leaving their own uncovered.
They had no need to hide their hunting from her. She'd gone over land, 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, paths too slender for company, where sea monsters sang and cliffs called for suicides.
Harathgar 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 in the mirror a dark gift. There, at cliff's edge, lay Ashara's head.
The company stared as water boiled with blood and bones. A warhorn sounded over and over, but the soldiers sagged and sat down. The mirror was full of monsters, too many to mention. Serpentine salt dragons, lizards, and lethargy lying on stones.
The kind of creatures that surface seething in ships'wakes to bear teeth and twist about an oar. Foil fishers and bring bad omens to sailors. The beasts dove, furious and frightened at the noise.
The bugle and battler's 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, awed and aggrieved.
Meanwhile, Beowulf gave zero shits. He dressed himself in glittering gear, his male 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 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 sliced that shine. Gold is good. Last but not least, Boonfeth, Hrothgar's left-hand man, unexpectedly stand for Beowulf, and handed him his heirloom. Harunting, an ancient hilted sword, written with runes of ruin, iron blade emblazoned with poison shoots, each bud 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. Boulmfert sent his sword to the more skillful swordsman. Note, the stone-bold son of Edslaf 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 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 Edsdale'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 plans 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 to a further shore. In short, I end up dead, you pay my core.
Feed them, pour them mead. Also, adored Hrothgar, you swore you'd send Hialok my gold get, array for my geek lord the treasures I won, and show him what keys this kingdom's deed at 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 warblade. I'll gain fame with his runting, or be harvested by hell. The Prince of Weatherdeeds was done standing on ceremony.
He stepped to the mirror's edge, and dove like a stone, thrown not to skip, but to wait a ship-shrouded corpse. Darkness drew him down. Most of a day was gone 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 a man from above was invading the below. She swam and seized him, but his body was swathed.
Warhelm, 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 a 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 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 mirror made sear 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 Merewife. Fearless.
He heaved his sword to take her life, swinging with all his strength, so the edge rang against her skull. 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 had 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.
Heloc's ear was bent on blood, thinking of legacy, of legend. He hurled the sword. Useless horde guilt.
Let it shatter in the cell. 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, warm for war with Grendel's mother, twisting her hair around his fist, raging, swinging her by her own skein, flinging 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 shoulders safe in the sleeride of some smith's genius, links staying locked to bend her blade.
Edgedale's heir would have 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 of 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 the dawn of things, so tremendous only a hero could heft it, though all would envy it. Beowulf gripped the giant sword at the hilt, and then he, the shielding'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. 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. Hialok's hitman 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 to Hale Road, 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-ridden, a cadaver, cold and collapsed, heartless after his time in Hale Road. Beowulf desecrated the dead, swinging the sword again and again, and rending the flesh a heft.
A wrench, removing Grendel's head. Above, Hrothgar's men surrounded the mirror, 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 prints. 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 seawolf had savaged him, everyone agreed, and it was lunchtime. The brave shieldings forsook the clifftop and took their gold giver home, but the visiting gates now vagrant stayed, hopeless, heart-sick, staring into the churning mirror, 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 falls in May when the father unlocks the shackles that have changed frost to the climate and releases hostage heat, uses sway over seasons to uncage 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, jewels scabbed, salvaged guilt. 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. The mirror 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 horde, 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 instead of water.
The mirror was peaceful now, though battle pink, 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. A skull spitted on a spear litter.
They approached Harrow 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 of hero, and made his way to Hrothgar, grit-ridden. His crew dragged Grendel's head into the mean 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, their hoard, their treasure. The Dane stared, jaws dropped.
Beowulf made a speech to end all speeches that son of Edgedale. So, we're back from the brink, half-Dane's son, shielding savior. Bringing you this token of our esteem, Zeebwe Gorlute. 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 have died had God not kept me close. Though my sword seemed severe, I'd have been helpless had I had only one thing.
Hardcore as it is, it failed when I brought it to bow. 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 two. Our son, the blade blistered as it touched their blood, and rivers of red rushed over it, unforging it from firefang into what 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 core can defend you, whether brave boys or bold men, you need not worry for their lives or longevity, Lord of Shieldings, nor fear anyone surging up from the mirror.
We're done with that damage. The hilt was handed off into the hard hands of the Ringlord, a relic older than any ruler, rendered in iron by giants and inherited after 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, it was engraved with an epic and scrutable down. 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. 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. Harimaud, that old king, was no hopeful hero to the heirs of Edwella, the honor shieldings.
His rise was their fall. He raged, cut down close comrades, aged advisors, 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, loathed where he could have 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. He is 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 plan, room to roam, wherever he desires. Every instant filled with joy. Let's him run his own kingdom and rule over boys who guard his borders.
Stand up guys who 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 wins to his will. He notices nothing nasty in himself, 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 horns, kisses. hides his gold, refuses support to those who've served him.
He forgets his debts, fortunes 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 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 Ringdane for fifty years, fighting adversaries, holding borders, our spears and swords against assassins of every nation, until I thought my enemies were casualties, earth impede 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 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, sat 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 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, heart-sick 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 in battle, packing off pain.
It was no more than Beowulf deserved. He dove into dreams. As above him, 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 mourning, 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 Harunting to be brought, and Beowulfirth received it, with thanks for the loan. He complimented its blade, and said it had been 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, Edsdale's own, said the proper words. It's time for us who set sail to save this king's land, to tell you we are overdue to return to our own man, Helot. And Helot, 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. Theolog may not be grey 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 for us, a ferocious for us, should you need fighters.
And if your son Hrothric should come to foster in Geekland. a dane kane's voyager in hialoch's court he'll find friends there foreign shores share their secrets with those who are themselves worthy 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 a wrathful 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 a better man to be their well-worn 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, 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 Danes'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 any time. 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's son nearby could only end in flame.
He opened his arms. He let him go.