“And she gave you a kingdom and crown,” the golden man says. “And you have them still, your lands and your treasure…your glory and your women. But what have I, dear Father? Where do I fit in your grand scheme?”
“You are your mother’s son,” Beowulf replies. “She never asked—”
“Never asked? Haven’t you ever wondered? You, an old man without an heir to his throne, have you never lain awake in the stillness of the night and wondered about the son whom you used to barter for power and riches? That he might have dreams and aspirations, that he might wish to be something more than a phantom and a bad memory?”
“My heir? You are an abomination.”
The golden man, taller than Beowulf now by a head, is standing only ten or twenty feet away, and he smirks and glances at the ground.
“An abomination,” says the golden man. “Like poor Grendel, you mean? Grendel, the ill-made and misbegotten son of good King Hrothgar—”
“The son of Hrothgar?” asks Beowulf, disbelieving. “Can you speak nothing but lies?”
“You did not know? Did you truly think you were my mother’s first dalliance with a son of Odin? Your Queen Wealthow knew, even before you met her—”
“I did not know it, and I do not know it now, for there is naught in you but bitter guile and deception.”
“Say what you will, Father. My skin is thick, and you cannot make me hate you any more than I already do. Indeed, if you were to engrave my hatred on every star in the sky, upon every grain of sand on every beach from now until the end of time, you would still not possess the smallest inkling of just how much I hate you.”
“How could I have known?” asks Beowulf.
“What matter? I am, as you say, an abomination, a demon born of an abominable union and unfit to sit upon your throne or upon any throne of man.”
And now the golden man, the son of Beowulf, has grown to such a great height that he stands easily twice as tall as his father, almost as tall as the monster Grendel. And his gleaming body has begun another and far more terrible sort of transformation, that smooth metallic skin suddenly becoming rough and scaled. The flourishes and whorls of the curled leather strapwork he was wearing have vanished, leaving only their intricate patterns behind, spirals of buff and amber on his gilded hide. From his face and skull, an assortment of horns and other bony nodules and excrescences have begun to sprout. Where a moment before towered a man of unearthly, incomparable beauty, now there stands some equally unearthly but hideous creature, neither quite reptile nor man.
“How will you kill me, Father?” the thing asks, but its dulcet voice has become an ugly, guttural rumble as lips and cheeks fold back and shrink away, tissue retracting to reveal a mouthful of uneven yellowed fangs and a purplish forked tongue. Its thick saliva drips to the cavern floor and spatters across the stones where it instantly flashes to puddles of blue-white flame. “Crush my arm in a door and tear it off? Do you think that will be enough? Or will you cut off my head and take it back to your pretty women as a trophy?”
Beowulf draws his sword, and the creature sneers and laughs at him. Its hands have become talons, and its arms have grown so long they reach the ground.
“Last night, you visited unspeakable suffering upon my people,” Beowulf says, holding the blade out before him, horrified by the metamorphosis he is witnessing, but incapable of looking away. “You have murdered—women and children, old men in their sleep. You are as much a coward as was your foul half brother, Grendel. You rain death upon those you despise and never do you look them in the face.”
“I am looking you in the face, Father.” But its bristling, venomous mouth is no longer suited to human speech, and Beowulf can only just make out the slurred and garbled words.
“Then fight me and leave the others be, for they have never done you harm.”
“But you love them, Father. Or so you profess, so you would have them believe. And I do hate you, so what better way might I ever harm you than by harming them? How better to take my vengeance?” More fire leaks from its jaws and spreads across the cobbles; Beowulf takes a quick step backward to avoid the flames.
There is a loud splash from the pool behind him, but Beowulf does not look away from the grinning dragon thing to see what might have made the sound.
“Enough,” the creature snorts, and now it has grown enormous, its horned skull brushing against the stalactites, breaking off bits of the smaller dripstone formations. Its neck is long and ripples with serpentine muscles, and where its arms were but a moment before there are gigantic leathery wings. A spiked and spiny tail lashes from side to side, and with one blow it smashes the altar stone to rubble. The beast is gigantic, the size of a small whale at least, almost as large as the sea monsters Beowulf fought when he swam against Brecca so long ago. It shakes its massive head from side to side, and scalding air washes over Beowulf.
“THERE WILL BE NO MORE TALK!” it bellows. “NOW, FATHER, YOU WILL WATCH AS I BURN YOUR WORLD TO CINDERS!”
And as the dragon opens its jaws wide, belching blinding gouts of liquid fire, Beowulf turns and dives headlong into the deep black pool. The cold water closes around him, soothing his blistered skin, and he lets himself sink to the muddy bottom bathed in the red-orange light from above. He looks back up at the roiling inferno writhing across the surface, wondering how long before the entire pool is turned to steam. Then there is a gentle but insistent tug at his arm, and when Beowulf looks down again, the merewife is floating before him. Even more beautiful than his memories of her, and he thinks if only Wealthow could see her, surely then his wife would understand why he has done the things he has done. Her yellow hair drifts like a wreath about her face, and her blue eyes seem brighter than any dragon’s fire. Her lips do not move, but he plainly hears her voice inside his head.
At last, you have met our son? she asks, and smiles, then raises a hand and lightly brushes his cheek with long, webbed fingers. He is so very much more than my poor idiot Grendel, but then his father…his father is so much more than that fat dullard Hrothgar ever was.
“Stop him,” Beowulf says, mouthing the words, and precious air rushes from his throat, rising in silvery bubbles toward the fire overhead.
Why would I do that? she replies. He is his father’s son, dear Beowulf. He is a willful being, a veritable wolf of the bees.
She drifts forward to kiss him, but now Beowulf can see the jagged, serrate teeth set into her blue-gray gums, the shimmer of scales between her breasts, and the Geat King is gripped by a powerful wave of revulsion. He raises his sword between them.
You will not hurt me, she whispers without speaking. You could not, even if you tried. Now, go and witness the grand deeds our beautiful son has come to work upon this land. He will be disappointed if you are not there to see. And she motions toward the surface of the pool.
On the hill overlooking the tarn, Wiglaf leans against one of the three oaks as the earth continues to shudder and roll beneath him. He has lashed both the horses to one of the lower limbs, and is grateful for having taken that precaution, for they would have fled in terror as soon as these convulsions began. Ripples spread out across the iridescent mirror of Weormgræf, and small waves have begun to lap at the shore. The horses snort and neigh. Their eyes roll, and they buck and pull at their restraints.