“Long did I suffer the harrowing of Grendel,” he says. “Only a few days ago, I still believed that I would not ever again be granted release from torment or again find consolation. And, of course,”—and here Hrothgar pauses and motions to all those assembled before him—“of course, this burden was never mine alone. Few were the houses of my kingdom not stained with the blood spilled by Grendel. This has been a curse that has touched us all.”

And there’s a low murmur of agreement from the men and women. Hrothgar nods and waits a moment or two before continuing.

“But this is a new day. And before you, with your own eyes, you see the proof that there has come at last an end to our sorrow and our troubles with the demon Grendel. Today, the monster’s reign has ended, thanks be to a man who has come among us from far across the sea, one man who has done what even the greatest among us could not manage. If the mother of this hero still draws breath, may she be evermore blessed for the fruit of her birth labor. Beowulf—” And now Hrothgar turns to Beowulf and puts an arm about him, pulling him close and speaking directly to him.

“I want everyone here, and everyone who might in time hear of this assembly, to know that in my heart I will love you like a son. With Grendel dead, you are a son to me.”

Until now, Beowulf has kept his eyes trained on the floor of Heorot, listening to the words of the King of the Danes. They have worked some magic upon him, he thinks, for the grief that has dogged him since the funeral pyre has vanished. He looks up into the faces watching him, and he feels pride, for has he not earned this praise and whatever reward may yet await him?

I might never have come here, he thinks. I might have left the lot of you to fend for yourselves against the fiend. It was not my trouble, but I made it mine. And he remembers the things he said to Wiglaf during the funeral, and asks himself what other prize a man might ever seek, but the glory of his accomplishments. But for the capricious skein of life, the weave of the Fates, he, too, would rightly ride the fields of Idavoll this day.

At the least, I have made good upon my boast, he thinks, staring directly at Unferth, and the king’s advisor immediately looks away.

“I have adopted you, my son, here, in my heart,” says Hrothgar, and thumps himself upon the chest. “You shall not now want for anything. If there is something you desire, you have but to ask, and I shall make it so. Many times in my life I have honored warriors who were surely far less deserving, for achievements that must surely seem insignificant when placed next to what you consummated here last night. By those actions, you have made yourself immortal, and I say, may Odin always keep you near at hand and give what bounty is due a hero of men!”

And now there is a hearty cheer from the crowd, and when it has at last subsided, Beowulf takes a step forward and speaks.

“I do not have the words due such an honor,” he says, smiling at Hrothgar, then turning back to all the others. “I am only a warrior, not a scop or a poet. I have given my life to the sword and shield, not to spinning pretty words. But I will say that here, beneath the roof of Hrothgar, my men and I have been greatly favored in our clash with Grendel. I may tell the tale, but I would prefer that you might all have been here, you who have suffered his vile depredations, to see for yourselves the brute in the moment of his defeat. Aye, I would have been better pleased could that have been the case, that you might have heard his pain as recompense for the pain he visited upon you and yours.” And Beowulf turns and stares up at the severed arm nailed upon the beam above him. He points to it, then turns back to the crowd.

“I was sleeping when he came,” says Beowulf, “wishing to take him unawares. I’d hoped to leap upon the beast and wrestle him to the floor, to wring from him with naught but my bare hands whatever sinister life animates such a being and leave his whole corpse here as the wergild due you all for the lives he had greedily stolen. But at the last he slipped from out my grasp, for slick was his slimy hide. He broke from my hold and made a dash for the door. And yet, I will have you know, what a dear price did cruel Grendel pay for his flight,” and again Beowulf points to the bloody, severed arm. “By this token may you know the truth of my words. If he is not yet dead, he is dying. That wound will be the last of him. Never again will he walk among you, good people of Heorot, and never again will you need fear the coming of night.”

And for a third time a wild cheer rises up from the grateful crowd, and this time only the repeated shouts of Hrothgar are sufficient to quiet them again. Two of the king’s thanes have brought forth a wooden chest and placed it in Hrothgar’s hands. He opens the box and draws out the golden drinking horn, the treasure he wrested long ago from the fyrweorm Fafnir, his greatest treasure, and the king holds it up for all to see. Then he turns to his queen and places the horn in her hands.

“Why don’t you do the honors, my queen?” And Beowulf catches the needle’s prick of sarcasm in his voice. But Wealthow takes the horn, her reluctance hardly disguised, and she presents it to Beowulf.

“For you, my lord,” she says. “You have earned it,” and with a quick glance at her husband, she adds, “and anything else which my good King Hrothgar might yet claim as his own.”

The gilded horn is even more beautiful than Beowulf remembers, and it glints wondrously in the light of the hall. He grins, betraying his delight at so mighty a gift, then holds it up, as Hrothgar has done, for all the hall to look upon. This time they do not cheer, but a murmur of awe washes through Heorot, at the sight of the horn and at their king’s generosity.

Queen Wealthow, her part in this finished, withdraws and stands with two of her maidens, Yrsa and Gitte, gazing up at Grendel’s arm. Though withered in death, it is still a fearsome thing. The warty, scaly flesh glimmers dully, like the skin of some awful fish or sea monster, and the claws are as sharp as daggers.

Yrsa leans close to the queen’s ear and whispers, “They say Beowulf ripped it off with his bare hands.”

“Mmmm,” sighs Gitte thoughtfully. “I wonder if his strength is only in his arms, or in his legs as well…all three of them.”

Yrsa laughs, and Gitte grins at her own jest.

“Well,” says Wealthow, wishing only to return to her quarters and escape the noise and the crowd and the sight of that awful thing nailed upon the beam. “After the feasting tonight, perhaps you may have the opportunity to make a gift of yourself to good Lord Beowulf and find out the strength of his legs.”

“Me?” asks Gitte, raising her eyebrows in a doubtful sort of way. “It is not me he wants, my queen.”

And Wealthow looks from Gitte to Yrsa, then from Yrsa back to Gitte. They nod together, and she feels the hot, embarrassed blush on her cheeks, but says nothing. She glances back toward Beowulf and sees that her husband has placed a heavy golden chain around his throat. The Geat is talking about Grendel again and all are listening with rapt attention. Wealthow turns and slips away through the press of bodies, leaving Yrsa and Gitte giggling behind her.

Outside and across the muddy stockade, Wiglaf sits astride one of the strong Danish ponies, still watching the funeral pyre. It has been burning for many hours now, fresh wood fed to the flames from time to time to keep it stoked and hot. But already no recognizable signs remain of the bodies of the four thanes slain the night before nor of the scaffolding that held them, and it might be mistaken for any bonfire that was not built to ferry the souls of the dead to the span of Bilröst, the Rainbow Bridge between this world and the gods’ judgment seat at Urdarbrunn. Wiglaf can clearly hear Beowulf’s words, carried along on the north wind, as though Hrothgar’s craftsmen have somehow designed the structure to project the words of anyone speaking within out across the compound.