This story continues from The Sea.

The Geat, the Goth and myself stand upon the rocky, white beach of the unknown country, staring inland. Beowulf is the first of us to speak: "The land of King Niduth. The same king smote by Witege the Waetling. This country is cursed." He lazily throws a stone across the shoreline, and the flicker of the weathered, battered soldier's fiery spirit vanishes at once. The Geat continues, "We've landed on little more than a marshy wasteland. There is only one hall here that still stands...I believe." Beowulf clutches the pommel of his sword, Hrunting, as though it were about to leap from its scabbard. "Hrothgar's domain is at Heorot. There is little left of it, if I recall. My memories are so splintered, my friends, I've difficulty separating the events of my life from the fantasies of Walheall. If Hrothgar lives yet, he will have us at his table, I've no doubt."

Beowulf's wan countenance and horror-stricken expression betray his statement. We find little comfort in this prospect, and I notice Hildibrands hanging on the last of the Geat's words, as though he expected more to follow. I know how Beowulf feels. I, too, have found myself of limited memory since Ragnarok, and I am reluctant to discover the missing fragments for fear that my past may uncover a horror I would sooner forget. What greater horror than the murder of Balder? Could there be anything worse? And yet when I look upon my lord Hildibrands, I see a thegn who may be one of those missing fragments. Did I know him before he stepped into Widsith's hall? I distract myself from such maddening thoughts with the task that lay ahead. We travel southeast, on foot, to Heorot.

Skidblaðnir's planks and beams shift, rotate and compact upon themselves, and I draw up the small, sled-like contraption from the surf at my feet.