XXIV. Beowulf Kills Grendel's Mother

Beowulf rises to his feet, but unarmed. He spots a weapon that might help: it is truly ancient (from before the flood!) and larger than life (forged by giants!). His extraordinary strength allows him to lift it and cut through the neck of Grendel's mother. He then takes the sword on a search for Grendel's corpse and cuts off its head. The act has consequences. Beowulf sees the ancient blade dissolve like an icicle on a hot day; his waiting friends see waves turn red and mount higher. They feel this is a sign of Beowulf's death. "At the day's ninth hour," the Danes give up their vigil, though the Geats "stared into the lake, / and longed without faith that their lord and friend / reenter their sight."

Beowulf picked the hilt of the melted sword and Grendel's head to take with him. He swam to the surface. No monsters attacked; they had disappeared. The water was calm. His friends rejoiced to see him. Teams of four men took turns carrying Grendel's heavy head to Heorot. They marched in with it and placed it in the midst of the men and women who were drinking there, amazing them all.

This Fitt describes a wide range of emotional states in a limited space. There is Beowulf's berserk rage against Grendel's mother, his vengefulness against Grendel, the hopeless longing of the Geats who thought Beowulf was dead, their unrestrained joy as he returns, the satisfaction of their trip back, and the stupefaction of the Danes as they saw Grendel's head dumped among them. There is irony, such as Grendel lying "seeming at rest" (though he suffered in Hell). There is also fine simile, such as this:

The sword then changed:
The blood of the slain dissolved the blade
like spears of ice. It inspired awe
that nothing remained, as melting ice
when the Father frees frost from its bonds,         1610
unwinds water-ropes, the one who rules
the times and seasons, the true Creator.

I'm not sure exactly what it means that the Father "unwinds water ropes." If an unwound rope looks somthing like this


Then it might look like this



But the other image that comes to mind is an icicle with water running down it, twisting into exactly the shape of a rope. I can't find a picture of it, but I've seen it.

Or "water rope" could simply be a term for an icicle.

One of the joys of literature is that you do not have to choose between competing interpretations. They all contribute meaning to the metaphor.

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XXIV. BEOWULF KILLS GRENDEL’S MOTHER
He saw among weapons a well-tested sword
with firm edges forged by giants,
an honour to wield. This one was the best        1560
but oversized for other men
to bear away to a battleground.
It was made well, this work of giants.
The Scyld-lord seized the sword by its ring-hilt.
Enraged beyond reason, he raised the sword,
not hoping to live. He hit with such anger
that it clutched her neck, cut into it hard,
broke through the neckbones, and next passed through
the doomed body. She dropped to the floor.
The blade was bloody. Beowulf rejoiced.        1570
                
The hall was lit by a light from within,
much like the bright illuming beams
of the sky’s candle. He scanned the room
and followed the wall, his weapon in hand
with bristling hilts. Hygelac’s thane
held one angry thought: The weapon had use
to the warrior’s will. He wanted now
to make Grendel pay for his many raids,
for the war he waged on the West-Danes,
returning to attack more times than the once        1580
that Hrothgar saw his hearth-companions
while slumbering slaughtered, while sleeping devoured.
The fifteen dead were Danish fighters.
Countless others were carried away,   
pitiful victims. The vengeful prince
repaid him sorely! Seeming at rest,
Grendel was lying, life’s pleasures gone,
robbed of existence, ruined as he was
by Heorot’s battle. The body heaved
when the corpse received a cut of such strength,        1590
so heavy a blow, its head came away.

They saw at once, the wise companions
that were watching the water with Hrothgar,
that the troubled waves were tossing higher
and stained with gore. Greybearded men,
respected elders spoke of the good man.
They had little hope the high-born lord,
exulting in triumph, would return and seek
the glorious monarch. Many agreed
that he had been slain by the sea-wolf’s hands.        1600

At the day’s ninth hour, the noble Danes
left the sea-cliff. He set off for home,
the gold-sharer, but his guests looked about
distraught at their loss, stared into the lake,
and longed without faith that their lord and friend
reenter their sight. 
                                        The sword then changed:
The blood of the slain dissolved the blade
like spears of ice. It inspired awe
that nothing remained, as melting ice
when the Father frees frost from its bonds,         1610
unwinds water-ropes, the one who rules
the times and seasons, the true Creator.

The war leader of the Weder Geats
retrieved no trophies from the treasures there,
except the head and the sword’s hilt,
so brightly adorned. The blade had melted,
its wave-pattern burned, the blood came so hot
from the poisonous spirit that perished within.

At once, in the water, the war survivor,
death to his foes, dived and ascended.         1620
The clashing waves were clear of danger,
endless expanses where evil spirits
had given up breath and this borrowed world.
The sailors’ leader set out for land,
swimming strongly, his sea-loot a joy,
the heavy burden he bore with him.

Then the thanes approached, with prayers of thanks.
The group of earls grinned and shouted
on seeing at last that their lord was safe.
Then the hardy man had helm and byrnie         1630
quickly loosened. The lake grew calm.
Below the sky lay blood-stained water.

They travelled the trails that took them back
with happy hearts. They held to the path,
the familiar route. With royal pride,
they carried the head from the clifftop heights,
with much effort from all of the men.
Four at a time, full of spirit,
they lifted and carried the litter pole
with Grendel’s head to the gold-hall.            1640
The time arrived that they reached the hall,
the fierce fighters, fourteen in all,
Geatsmen going with their great leader,
proud in the pack. They passed over the lawn.
The men’s captain then came marching,
fearless in action, exalted to fame,
the gallant hero, to greet Hrothgar.
The head was lowered by its hair to rest,
the monster’s head where men were drinking.
The earls were awed, as were the ladies,        1650
on seeing the marvel. The men all stared.