61: Riddles and Runes

As the laughter continued to ring through the cavern, Aragorn came to a decision. Doffing his cloak, he covered the body of the queen, the one who had brought them all to this and had paid the ultimate price. Whispering a quick prayer to the Valar for mercy on Éolind’s soul, he then motioned for the others to step away from the crude altar and retreat the way they had come. When they were some distance away, he spoke.

"Gilhael, I know you will help me," he said then turned to Denethor, "but your aid is needed here too."

"In what way?" the Gondorian asked with a frown. "I have had no experience with these... barrow-wights, as you call them."

"But you have the blood of Númenor in your veins," Aragorn stated. "There is much power there, power that I will need to drive this wight away, for I am not an Elf and I cannot do this alone. Also, we must hurry, for I have no doubt that whoever called forth this creature will be aware if it is being attacked and will come to investigate. Already they may be alerted and are on their way."

Denethor eyed the two Dúnedain Rangers and saw the same look of determination on their faces. Whether he joined them in their battle with this undead creature or not, they would go forth and do what they needed to do, even if without him they were doomed to failure. He gave them a single nod. "I will help. Tell me what to do."

"And me?" Wídfara demanded, feeling left out and outnumbered by these sons of the ancient Sea-Kings while he was but a lowly Rider whose ancestors had been rough and uncultured nomads. "What do I do?"

Aragorn clapped his friend on the shoulder and gave him a fond smile, as if he knew what he was thinking. "You have the most important task of all."

"What’s that?" Wídfara couldn’t help asking, his eyes widening in both excitement and dread. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever his sweordbroðor wanted from him.

"Talk to it."

"Huh?" Wídfara stared at Aragorn in disbelief.

The Dúnadan nodded. "Keep it occupied and uninterested in us. I must teach Gilhael and Denethor their roles in what I would do and the wight cannot know. You must distract it."

"How!? And for how long?" the young Rider nearly wailed, fear like ice coursing through his veins.

"I’m sure you will think of something, Sweordbroðor," Aragorn answered gravely, though his eyes held glints of amusement as well as sympathy in them. They were playing a dangerous game and if they failed, death would be the least of their worries. "Keep it occupied for as long as you can. I will signal you when we are ready."

"Why don’t you tell it a joke?" Denethor suggested, half in jest so as to relieve some of the terror he could see in the Rohir’s eyes. He was almost willing to switch roles with Wídfara but he knew that Thorongil was right: the blood of Númenor did flow through his veins and he knew something of its lore. Wídfara simply did not have the innate power needed, though it was clear that he was an able warrior and a true friend, else he would not be there.

Gilhael’s reaction to Denethor’s suggestion was a raised eyebrow but no other comment. Aragorn gave the Gondorian a knowing smile, but it was Wídfara’s reaction that was the most telling. He straightened his shoulders and the fear that had been bubbling near the surface was now pushed resolutely away. In its place was, if not nonchalance, then at least a determination to do what was being asked of him.

"I’ll do better than that," he said. He gave them all a nod and stepped back into the cavern.

"Do not reveal your name or ours," Aragorn warned him in a whisper as Wídfara passed him, "nor our purpose here and remember, it is evil. It will seek to deceive you. Do not believe it or anything about it."

Wídfara gave him a nod of understanding and continued back to where Éolind’s body lay,taking the torch with him. Aragorn and the others watched him for a moment and then the Dúnadan Chieftain motioned the other two men closer. "This is what you must do...."

****

Wídfara stopped just before the make-shift altar and grimaced, suppressing a shiver of disgust. He could feel the waves of cold, inimical evil sweep over him as the griming made itself visible. His first instinct was to run, to get as far away as possible. The sense of wrongness that he had experienced in the Scamelas was even stronger here and it was all that he could do to stand where he was and fight the need to be thoroughly sick. The wight appeared first as a shadow that was darker than the shadows cast by the flickering torchlight, and then it seemed to gather form as it stood opposite him with the queen’s enshrouded body between them. Wídfara gasped, taking an unconscious step back, unsure he was seeing correctly in the fitful light. He glanced down at the cloak-shrouded figure as if to assure himself that the Dowager queen was indeed dead, for standing there was Éolind herself!

Or, Wídfara hastily amended his thoughts, something that appeared to be the old queen.

The specter smiled and it was not pleasant. "What do I see before me then?" it said in a rustling whisper that grated on Wídfara’s nerves. He had never met Éolind in life, but if this was how she had sounded when she still breathed, he was glad of it. "A Rider of Rohan if my eyes mistake me not." The smile turned uglier and the specter’s eyes darkened with anger. "Have you no respect for your queen, ceorl? Why do you not show me proper reverence?"

Wídfara glared at the griming for a moment before answering. "I know of only one queen of Rohan and you are not she." He purposely refrained from using the polite address he normally would have used when speaking to either Thengel or Morwen.

"You dare!" the specter screeched and Wídfara winced, forcing himself not to cover his ears. "I should kill you now, insolent puppy," it said with a cold hungry look which made it look uglier as it moved closer to him, completely ignoring the stone altar between them.

As much as he wanted to, Wídfara refused to step back. "Then you will be deprived of the entertainment I had devised," he said with a sneer. He tried not to show any fear, though his heart was fairly leaping out of his chest and his mouth felt drier than sand.

That stopped the wight and Wídfara forced himself not to shudder at the sight of it standing in the middle of the altar seemingly unaware that it was passing through stone and flesh. "And why would I wish to be entertained by the likes of you, little man, when I could simply entertain myself with slowly killing you?" It laughed.

The Rider shrugged, as if unconcerned and started to turn away. "Well, if that’s your attitude, I’ll just leave you then."

"Wait!" the false queen demanded. Wídfara stopped and turned back to see the specter looking uncertain. "What form of entertainment did you have in mind?"

"Ah... I thought a riddle-game would be an amusing way to pass the time while my friends think of a way to get rid of you." He was gambling on the specter’s sense of self-importance in its belief that none could destroy it and it would dismiss his claim out of hand and he was not disappointed.

The griming laughed in contempt and sneered at him. "Ah... so that is why they sent you as a lamb to the slaughter, is it? The mighty men of Westernesse have no need for you save as a sacrifice. Typical."

Wídfara struggled to maintain his composure. In the back of his mind, he had wondered why Thorongil had no need for him in the actual act of ridding the wight. The griming noticed his hesitation and grinned.

"They see you as weak," it crooned almost lovingly in a grotesque attempt at solicitude. "You are not of the blood of the Sea-kings, little Rider. You are expendable in their eyes."

"That’s not true," he uttered, but the words came out in a hoarse whisper and he felt his knees grow weak in the face of the griming’s insidious words. "I am their sweordbroðor and...."

"You are their tool," the wight retorted, "nothing more. They only pretend to be your sweordbroðor, for you are just an uncouth Eorling in their eyes who lives in a thatched barn and calls it a palace." It laughed and the sound of it struck Wídfara’s soul like a brumal wind, cold as death, and his spirit withered against the onslaught.

"No...." he whispered, a sense of dread creeping over him.

"Yes," the wight replied triumphantly.

Wídfara shook his head in denial, but there was the nagging thought lodged in his brain that perhaps the wight was telling the truth. He recalled his time with the Dúnedain and now it seemed to him that Thorongil and Gilhael had treated him, not as an equal, but as someone less than they, as someone whom they could never truly call ‘friend’. After all, he was only a Rider of Rohan and no scion of the Sea-kings, those great lords of power who numbered Elves among their kith and kin. He felt tears rolling down his face, frozen in place by his sense of worthlessness.

The wight moved closer, reaching out with its clawed hands, its mouth wide with a death grin, its eyes pools of dark hunger and Wídfara stood there as a blanket of darkness descended upon him. He closed his eyes and felt icy fingers caressing his face as would a lover. He shuddered as an overwhelming smell of the charnel pit assaulted him but he could offer no other resistance to the wight’s advances. He felt his soul withering in the face of the evil that emanated from the wight and he feared he would be smothered by it and be forever damned. Almost he crumpled to his knees as wave after wave of darkness rolled over him and the wight’s laughter sliced through him like a sword. His fingers felt nerveless and the torch nearly fell from his hand, its flame burning low.

No matter what, do not listen to anything the wight says. It will be a lie.

It was almost as if Thorongil were standing beside him, speaking to him. He grasped at the words like a drowning man would at a rope and tightened his grip on the torch.

Think of the most precious moment in your life. Keep hold of the memory and do not let it go. Use it as a shield against the terror you are feeling.

The words themselves were like a shield and the flame of the torch brightened somewhat as he struggled to recall the memory that he had kept before him as they descended into the licweg. It flickered on the edge of his consciousness and he latched onto it with all his remaining strength. It was the memory of his first meeting with the Elves. He had been both frightened and awed by their ethereal beauty, a beauty so fundamentally different to the ugliness of the griming before him. Slowly, painfully, the dark tendrils of doubt and despair uncurled themselves from his soul as he held onto the memory of Thandir smiling at him and calling him elvellon.

He straightened and forced himself to smile at the specter. "Perhaps, or perhaps not," he said with studied nonchalance. "At any rate, shall we play?"

The wight fell back, its grimace of triumph turning into one of anger and Wídfara steeled himself against what he assumed would be another onslaught of evil. Yet, the wight did not advance. Instead, it gave him a calculating look.

"And the stakes?" it demanded. "What good is a game without stakes?"

"True," Wídfara answered. "These are the stakes then: if I fail to guess correctly I die."

That seemed to startle the specter for a moment, but it nodded, an evil gleam in its eyes. "And if I fail to answer your riddle?"

"You die."

Now the specter laughed again. "Silly fool," it said contemptuously. "I cannot die."

"We’ll see," Wídfara said with a shrug. "Shall we play?" he asked again.

The specter nodded. "I will let you go first," it said magnanimously, "even though you are the challenger."

"Fair enough," Wídfara said and then he gave the first riddle, having already thought of it:

     "On my back I bear the water

     that once wrapped earth-dwellers,

     Flesh and Spirit.

     Say who shrouds me and what I am called

     who carry these burdens."

The specter sniffed. "Too easy, little Rider. The answer is ‘Wind’."

Wídfara nodded. "Well, I thought to start out easy and work my way up to hard," he answered with a grim smile. "Your turn."

The griming smiled evilly.

     "I saw a creature wandering the way:

     She was devastating-beautifully adorned.

     On the wave a miracle: water turned to bone."

"Hmm...." Wídfara pretended to hesitate, as if unsure of the answer, though he knew it readily enough. He noticed the gleam of anticipation brightening in the wight’s eyes, assured of its victory so soon. "Ice," he said as if suddenly coming to the answer. He gave her a smug smile. "Water turned to ice."

The specter grimaced. "Say on then," was its only response.

Now it would get harder, Wídfara knew. He licked lips that had gone dry as he thought of a riddle that would make the griming think. He dared not glance back at his friends, for fear the specter would take note, but he silently prayed that whatever preparations they needed would be done sooner rather than later.

"Well, then," he said, "try this one:

     Sometimes I swallow my tempered foe,

     Thrust a long limb through a hard hole,

     Catch hard the keeper of the heart’s pleasure,

     Twist with my tongue and turn back

     the midnight guardian of my lord’s treasure

     When the conquering warrior comes to hold

     the gift of slaughter, the joy of gold."

He wasn’t sure what possessed him to speak that particular riddle. Perhaps it was the thought of those who had conquered his own land and the sense of outrage he felt whenever he thought of what Éolind and her cronies had wrought. At any rate, it appeared that the specter was not finding this riddle as easy as the first.

"Give up?" he asked lightly.

The griming snarled. "Patience, boy! I merely need to figure out the key... ah! That’s the answer, isn’t it?" it smiled triumphantly. "Key. The answer is a key."

Wídfara gave it a small bow. "Your turn," was his only response, but inwardly he wondered if he would succeed in keeping up the game. He had no idea what riddles the wight might throw at him and if he failed... but no, that thought he drove out of his head. Failure was not to be thought on. His only real task was to keep the griming occupied until Thorongil was ready.

The specter grinned. "You are an insolent child," it said. "I will enjoy killing you slowly."

"I’m sorry," Wídfara said as cooly as he could. "Was that the riddle?"

"Bah!" it replied with a snarl. "Here then, and see if you can guess its meaning:

     The least of creatures shaped by Nature,

     I have no soul, no life,

     Yet I move everywhere in the wide world.

     I have no blood or bone, yet carry

     comfort to the children of Men in Middle-earth.

     I have no limbs, yet I live!

     If you can solve this riddle quickly,

     say what I am called....

Else, little man, I will surely kill you," it added and laughed evilly.

Wídfara could not suppress the shudder at the sound of it. For the life of him, he could not fathom the riddle’s meaning. What has no soul yet lives and moves across Middle-earth and brings comfort to the children of Men? he wondered and he could feel panic rising in him as he tried to find the answer. He noticed that the wight had taken another step or two forward so that it now stood entirely in front of the queen’s body, its expression one of eager anticipation. Slowly it held out a clawed hand, as if ready to grab him but he took a step back and glared at it. He was still at a loss for an answer and wished heartily that he was anywhere but there. Dying did not frighten him but he preferred his death to be cleaner, at the end of a sword point rather than as a barrow-wight’s victim. His eyes fell to the shrouded image of the corpse lying there and for the first time he felt pity for the old queen. However wicked and wrong-headed she might have been, no one deserved that kind of death.

"Death," he whispered, not really paying any heed to the specter before him.

It stopped its advance. "What was that?" it demanded.

Wídfara looked up into the face of the wight, blinking away his earlier thoughts and trying to remember what he had said. "Death. I said death. Is that the answer?" he asked, knowing full well that that is what it had to be.

The specter smirked. "Very good," it said, "but I grow weary of this game and I think I will kill you and your companions anyway."

"Well that isn’t sporting," Wídfara replied with a disdainful air, "and it wasn’t the terms of our agreement. I should be given the chance to say one more riddle I would think."

"Oh very well," it said almost petulantly. "Say on, but know that I will kill you regardless."

"You can try," Wídfara retorted with more coolness than he felt. "Here then is my riddle:

     I stretch beyond the bounds of Middle-earth,

     Shrink down smaller than a hand-worm,

     Grow brighter than the moon, run swifter than the sun.

     I cradle oceans and the green plains in my arms.

     I rise to Over-heaven and into the depths of Death-hall I tread —

     filling all of Middle-earth with myself.

     Say what I am called."

And while he waited for the specter to either answer or attack, he sent a fervent prayer to Lord Béma that whatever his friends were planning that they would get on with it. He feared he was running out of time if not riddles.

****

Aragorn was half-listening to Wídfara and the barrow-wight playing a riddle game as he quietly instructed Gilhael and Denethor in the words of the invocation they would speak to drive the wight out, marveling at the coolness and cleverness of his sweordbroðor in coming up with the idea of riddles. It was an ancient traditional form of a challenge. He kept half his attention on Wídfara, for if the specter chose to attack, they would have to come to their companion’s aid.

"Are you ready?" he asked the other two. Gilhael, he had no doubts about, for he knew his cousin was more familiar with this formula than Denethor, but the Gondorian had a quick mind and easily memorized his part in the ritual they would perform.

Both men nodded.

"Remember," he admonished them, "there can be no errors and no hesitations. Your wills must be as steel and nothing can distract you."

"We are ready," Gilhael answered, including the Gondorian in his statement, a testament to his faith in Denethor even if they really knew little of his mettle. Confidence, however, was the key to their success and there could be no doubts of failure for any of them.

Denethor nodded. "We will not fail," he said simply.

Aragorn gave them a sour grin. "Keep Wídfara between you," he instructed them and then turned to see how his sweordbroðor was faring.

".... Middle-earth with myself. Say what I am called." The young Rider was speaking the end of his riddle.

"Let’s not give it a chance to answer," Aragorn suggested and with a nod from the other two they stepped back into the cave.

Gilhael and Denethor came abreast of Wídfara, flanking him. He gave them a startled smile, for they had moved silently and he had been concentrating all his attention on the barrow-wight. They returned his smile with ones of their own, then turned their attention to Aragorn, who had slipped around the altar so that he was facing them. The specter’s attention at the moment was on the two flanking Wídfara.

"Ah... I see your friends have come to join us," it said evilly. "I’m looking forward to killing you all."

Denethor leaned closer to Wídfara to whisper into his ear. "When I tap you on the shoulder, throw the torch to Aragorn."

Wídfara nodded slightly, even as he addressed the griming. "You still haven’t answered my riddle."

"Bah! What need I to answer it," it sneered. "Think you that I would have honored our agreement. I will kill you regardless." It started forward and the three men took an involuntary step back, though Wídfara continued to speak to it.

"Yet, the challenge was that if you did not answer my riddle then you would die, not I. Do you forfeit the game, then?"

The specter paused as if considering his words. Wídfara did not know if the specter would be stopped by the threat of forfeiture. The rules of the riddle-game were ancient but he doubted that such an evil creature would truly honor them. It did not matter, because even as it paused in its advance, Gilhael began to speak. Chills ran up and down Wídfara’s spine as the cadence of the words in what he realized must be Sindarin, took on the power of a spell and he realized that a mighty rune was being uttered.

"A Elbereth Gilthoniel, le nallon sí di’nguruthos, lasto na bith nîn!"

Then even as the wight shrieked at the name of the Star-Queen, Denethor took up the invocation:

"A Manweg, Aran Einior, le nallon sí di’nguruthos, tiro nin!"

"Noooo!!!!" the wight screamed, actually covering its ears with its hands.

Aragorn was next and at the sound of his voice the wight turned and snarled, even going so far as to move towards him, passing right through the altar and the queen’s body.

"A Bannoth, Hîr en-Gorthrim, le nallon sí di’nguruthos, tolo na dulu nîn!"

No sooner had he finished, then Gilhael spoke again, diverting the specter’s attention back to the other three men. "Fae e-morn! No pelinnen di’ngiliath Elbereth."

"No adleithannen o gwîdh lîn nan thûl Manweg," Denethor exclaimed.

"No neithan sîdh e-harch nan innas Bannoth," Aragorn cried.

All this while Wídfara could feel the power of the invocation rising, filling him, and he felt weak in the face of it, but locked his knees and stood where he was. The wight was writhing now, its screams crescendoing beyond the hearing of Mortals, its form fading in and out as it struggled to remain. It snarled and made to lunge at Wídfara, but it was as if a wall stood between them and it could not reach him. Almost as soon as Aragorn finished speaking the three of them chanted together:

"Gwanno, dae e-gorthad, awartho i gaew lîn! Ú-bresto Dôr-i-Guinar dan drego ned Gast ui! No goren i Innas lîn, A Eru!"

Even as they uttered the final phrase, Wídfara felt a light touch on his shoulder. Immediately he threw the torch, watching in fascination as it passed right through the specter. Aragorn caught it nimbly and with a single flick of his wrist he threw off the cloak covering the queen and then laid the torch directly into the hole where her heart had once been.

"No!" Wídfara and the wight screamed at the same time, their looks of horror almost identical.

Gilhael and Denethor grabbed the younger man and held him tightly. "Stay, good Wídfara," Gilhael whispered to him. "This is the only way to break the link between the wight and the sacrifice that brought it here."

Wídfara sagged in their hold, watching in distress as the queen’s body burst into flames, flames that seemed to the young Rider to be unnatural in the manner in which they consumed the body. He had no love for Éolind, but the idea of immolation did not sit well with him. It was a barbaric custom to his mind but he understood the necessity of it.

Meanwhile, the wight continued to writhe and shriek, and fade, though not all at once. It glared at Wídfara with baleful eyes glowing with consummate hate. "I should have killed you first off," it snarled.

Wídfara pulled himself out of his friends’ grip, taking a step forward, and smiling. "Too late and, by the way... the answer to my riddle? Creation. Just so you know."

With a final wail the wight faded from their sight even as the queen’s body fell into ashes. The putrid smell of decay, death, and burnt flesh permeated the air, but the coldness surrounding them was the natural cold of the tunnels and not that of evil. For a very long moment none of them moved. Then Wídfara started to collapse, feeling suddenly drained.

"Steady," Gilhael said as he and Denethor grabbed him and held him up. "You did very well, my friend, very well, indeed."

"Yes," Aragorn said, coming around to their side of the altar, shrugging his cloak around him. "A riddle-game." He gave his sweordbroðor an admiring look. "You will have to tell us what riddles were used some time. I think this will be worthy of a song or two."

Wídfara shook his head in denial. "You’re the ones who vanquished it," he protested. "I just..." He shrugged, giving them a deprecating look as if to say, ‘You’re the heroes, not I’.

"We all did our parts in driving away this evil," Aragorn stated firmly. "We could not have succeeded if you had not kept the wight occupied while I taught the invocation to Gilhael and Denethor. You bought us the time we needed and I thank you." With that he clasped the Rider by the shoulders and gave him a kiss on the forehead that was a benediction. Surprisingly, to Wídfara’s mind, Gilhael and then Denethor did the same.

"Now, we must depart from here," Aragorn said. "I have no doubt that whoever summoned the wight will know that it has now been vanquished. They will come here to learn why and we must not be caught."

"Which way should we go, then?" Gilhael asked. "Should we try for the cemetery door? It is probably only barred on this side and we can easily leave the licweg."

"Only, Thengel has troops watching the entrance, archers if I remember correctly," Denethor reminded them. "They may be inclined to shoot first and ask questions later."

Aragorn nodded. "And to retrace our steps would be futile for we would only run into whoever is coming from the other direction." He paused a moment, taking a look at their surroundings. "Wídfara, do you still have Sigefred’s map?"

The Rider nodded, fishing for the map that he had shoved under his boiled-leather vest for safe-keeping, handing it to Aragorn. The Ranger unfolded it and spread it on the ground before them. They all knelt to get a better look. The map was drawn in such a way that surface landmarks were inscribed along the tunnel routes so that they could see approximately where they were within the city. The entrance for Meduseld was clearly marked. Aragorn traced a finger down the page towards where the Scamelas would be. Without taking his eyes off the map he spoke to his cousin.

"Go down the tunnel towards the cemetery entrance," he ordered. "Count the number of steps it takes to reach it."

"Starting from where?" Gilhael asked, standing and taking the torch that Aragorn handed to him.

"Where this cavern ends."

Gilhael nodded and set off, leaving the other three in darkness. "What are you thinking, Thorongil?" Denethor asked.

"Wait until Gilhael returns," Aragorn answered. "Then I will know how to answer."

The wait seemed interminable in the darkness but after awhile they saw the glow of the torch coming towards them and soon Gilhael appeared. "Three hundred and five paces," he said as he joined them, crouching down. "Now, will you tell us what that’s all about?"

Aragorn took the torch from Gilhael and pointed back at the map. "If my calculations are correct, we are nearly under the Scamelas, which means that tunnel that deadends just before you reach the Scamelas..."

"Has to be somewhere near by," Gilhael finished the thought with a nod.

"You mean to find the tunnel and try to escape that way," Denethor said. "Do we have the time? Even if we find it immediately, how can we be sure we can break through? We have no tools for digging."

"I think I would rather take my chances with the men outside in the cemetery," Wídfara offered. "At least we can call to them and identify ourselves before we’re shot down."

"Yet, the action will not be outside the walls," Aragorn pointed out reasonably, "but inside. Already the sun rises and if Gléomund and the others reached the gates undetected, Thengel should be riding into his city at this very moment."

"Which may explain why we have heard no one coming as yet," Denethor said. "They’re too busy protecting their own hides to worry about what is happening down here."

"Well, why don’t we do this?" Gilhael suggested. "Why don’t we see if we can find the tunnel entrance? At the very least we can assure ourselves that it will be impossible to break through any time soon. If that’s the case, then I suggest we head back to Meduseld. I would rather face the enemy than flee from it, though it means certain death to do so."

For a moment they stared at one another, gauging each other’s reaction to Gilhael’s advice. One by one they nodded their assent to the idea. Aragorn stood and the others followed. Holding the map in one hand and the torch in the other he gestured to his left. "Let’s take a look," he said and the others followed him in search of the unfinished tunnel.

****

All words are Rohirric (Anglo-Saxon) unless otherwise noted.

Griming: Specter.

Ceorl: Pronounced "churl". While its original meaning was ‘a freeman of the lowest class, peasant’, it has come to mean ‘a rude, boorish person’ and it became a word of contempt. The specter, using the term here is insulting Wídfara’s rank, since only those of the thegn-class could become warriors.

Elvellon: (Sindarin) Elf-friend.

The Riddles: These are actual riddles from the Exeter Book and published by Craig Williamson in The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book (1977) and A Feast of Creatures: Anglo-Saxon Riddle Songs (1982). An online version of these riddles can be found at:

http://www2(dot)kenyon(dot)edu/AngloSaxonRiddles/texts(dot)htm

The riddles in the order in which they are spoken are: 1, 66, 87, 37, and 64. The numbering is based on Williamson. In some cases they have been adapted to reflect the cultural mindset of Middle-earth, thus, for example, in Riddle 64, ‘Death-hall’ is a direct translation of déaþsele which came to mean ‘hell’, but in the context of Middle-earth, I consider it the Rohirric term for Mandos. An examination of the original poem reveals that the more common word helle is used, reflecting the Christian slant of the riddle-maker.

Translation of the Sindarin rune Aragorn, Gilhael and Denethor chant:

     O Varda Star-kindler,

     to thee I cry now beneath death’s shadow,

     hear my words!

     O Manwë, Elder King,

     to thee I cry now beneath death’s shadow,

     look towards me!

     O Námo, Lord of the Dead,

     to thee I cry now beneath death’s shadow,

     come to my aid!

     Spirit of Darkness!

     Be withered under the stars of Varda.

     Be released from thy bonds by the breath of Manwë.

     Be deprived the peace of the grave by the will of Námo.

     Depart, shade of the barrow, abandon thy lair.

     Trouble not the land of the living

     But flee into the everlasting Void!

     Thy Will be done, O Eru!

Author's Note: My thanks to Sunny for her kind encouragment and suggestions which helped me to improve this chapter.