Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled

by unexpected sparks.

(Samuel Johnson 1709 - 1784)

They feasted in the company of their friends – Merry and Pippin joined them after having hauled so much food over, that the table threatened to sag – their conversation light-hearted and filled with cheerful banter. Around them, all the citizens of Edoras appeared to be having a good time. They were laughing in a more carefree manner than Éomer could remember them having done in a very long time and doing justice to the no longer strictly allotted food and drink. It was something they had been rarely able to indulge themselves in for many years. The children were obviously having their share of a good time, too. Nobody seemed to have the intention of sending them off to bed. Gaggles of all ages rampaged around, every single one making more noise than the average banshee.

After Gimli had vacated the dancing floor, a handful of couples had taken his place. Merewyn had managed to drag Amrothos there, quite successfully teaching him the Rohirric dances. One could not deny that the Prince had an aptitude for it, catching on to the steps and the rhythm very quickly and looking not at all as bumbling as most other men did.  His own person included, as Éomer had to admit to himself. He just hoped Lothíriel wouldn’t want to dance. If she wished to get more exercise, he could make a few suggestions. Well, actually he had, in such a case, a very particular suggestion to make.

But his wife’s attention was drawn not by the dancers but by a group of men, sitting with their ale on stumps around a bonfire. Taking turns, one would recite something, which was followed by a short discussion, which would regularly result in laughter and applause. When after a while Gandalf joined them, Lothíriel could no longer curb her curiosity. She leaned into his body.

“Éomer, that group over there, the one that has just been joined by Mithrandir, what are those men doing?”

He relished that she obviously took it as a matter of course to have her breast pressed against his arm, and to rest her cheek for a heartbeat against his shoulder. Under the table he took her hand, weaving their fingers together.

“I told you earlier that the Rohirrim like to entertain themselves with riddles. Well, that is what they are doing over there; asking each other riddles.”

“Oh, you indeed meant that literally.”

“Yes, in this case it was meant literally.”

He watched with amusement as his wife contemplated the group. One of her frowns appeared above the bridge of her nose. She was clearly intrigued by their game.

“Would you like to go over to join them and listen for a while?” he asked.

“They would not mind?”

“I doubt that. They would be honoured.”

He got up and, instead of merely assisting her to climb over the bench, he slid his hands under her armpits and lifted her easily over the barrier. Lothíriel was already much too focused on her targets to pay any attention to this, perhaps not entirely kingly, procedure. Éomer doubted that any of their subjects paid much attention either.

Gandalf had sat down with the riddlers: a quite varied lot. Éomer saw that Gléowine was with them, his uncle’s minstrel and scop; he recognized Æthelmære, a member of the Royal Council, a few of the city’s craftsmen – amongst them Master Ælbert – and a handful of riders of his guard. When they saw their King and Queen approaching, the men jumped to their feet to greet the couple. The Istar, taking his weed-pipe from his mouth, smiled at Lothíriel.

“Will you try your hand at solving a riddle, my Lady?”

“I should think that before I can try my luck, I would have to learn the tongue of Rohan well enough that I would be able to make out the subtleties of the language.”

“Perhaps I might be of some assistance.” Gandalf gestured her to take a seat next to him. “Come to my side and I will translate to the best of my knowledge and belief.”

Lothíriel did as she had been bidden, and one after the other the men settled down at their former places again. Only then did Éomer make out that amongst the group was the Captain of his Guard, Éofor. The rider was watching his Queen with an expression that reminded Éomer, unpleasantly, of a cat eyeing an unsuspecting bird, apparently so fascinated that he was unable to avert his gaze. He did not like that look at all. Éofor had a certain reputation, that was for sure, but what was the man thinking of? He was not in the company of some ‘tæppestre’, some serving wench.

Before Éomer had the chance to decide what to do, somebody stepped next to him. He slanted the man a glance. It was Erchirion. His wife’s brothers had the unnerving habit of popping up out of nowhere. It seemed he had failed in whatever his intention regarding Aldhelm’s kinswoman had been. However, he did not look at all crestfallen.

“What is so interesting here that it has drawn not only the Royal Couple into the circle but also the wise wizard?”

“Riddles,” Éomer answered with a not to be surpassed curtness. He turned his attention back to his captain.

“My!” Erchirion murmured. “We are loquacious tonight, are we not?”

But another short glance showed Éomer that his brother-in-law had followed his line of vision and was now also contemplating the rider, who still had his sight trained on his beautiful queen. However, unlike Rohan’s King, the Prince didn’t appear to be irritated by the brazen regard, only mildly interested.

It had been Gléowine’s turn to present a riddle, and Gandalf quietly translated the words for Lothíriel. It was a complicated one - Éomer hadn’t really listened, as he was concentrating on the man who dared to stare rudely at his wife. The discussion went back and forth, several solutions were proposed, but Théoden’s old minstrel only shook his head again and again. When he was finally asked to explain his riddle, Erchirion cut in.

“Am I allowed a try?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“I think you mean a quill.”

This time Gléowine nodded appreciatively. Éomer was not surprised. Lothíriel’s bothers – at least the two closest to her – no doubt had a very capable brain each. It was just that they preferred to camouflage the fact. On the other hand, a quill was a rather uncommon implement for the ordinary Rohír and therefore difficult to guess right.

The next riddle came from a young, lanky weaver they had met earlier in the day at Master Guthlac’s place. It was easy to solve, as was the one after it, recited by another of the craftspeople, because they both dealt with the respective crafts of the men. Then it was Éofor’s go.

“If you wish, my Lady,” the man addressed his Queen in all politeness, “I can present my riddle in the common tongue.”

Éomer did not doubt that the Captain of his Guard was quite able to deliver the riddle in Westron. He was from the eastern Folde and most people in the border region spoke that language as well as their own tongue. Nevertheless, something about the conduct of the man irritated him, but before he had the chance to intervene, Lothíriel accepted the offer.

“That would be very kind of you, Captain Éofor.”

The man glanced fleetingly at his King, his gaze equally cautious and challenging, however he began to recite his lines without any obvious hesitation.

  I am a wondrous thing, woman's delight,

handy in the home, I harm no

housholder but him who hurts me..

My stalk is tall, I stand in a bed,

my root rather hairy. The haughty girl,

churl's gorgeous daughter,

sometimes has courage to clasp me,

rushes my redness, rapes my head,

stows me in her stronghold. Straightway

the curly-locked lady who clamps me

weeps at our wedding. Wet shall be her eye.

For a long moment, after Éofor had ended, there was an embarrassed silence, with the men exchanging disbelieving glances and looking anxiously at their King. The only reason that Éomer did not react immediately was the fact that he couldn’t quite decide if he should disembowel the man on the spot for his impertinence or reduce him to mucking out the stables with his bare hands for the rest of his life. He felt Erchirion’s eyes on him.

He was just about to move when his wife’s voice stopped him.

“That is an easy one,” Lothíriel declared, perfectly oblivious to the tension which had suddenly flared up and had caused her companions to become frozen to their seats. Éomer blinked at her in disbelief. He heard Erchirion making some choking noise.

“So you have figured it out, my dear?” Gandalf stated in a slightly curious tone. Éomer didn’t know what to make of the amused twinkle in the wizard’s eyes. “We are quite eager to hear your answer to this riddle.”

“Gandalf . . .” Éomer began, but the Istar waved him silent.

“Go on, my dear,” the wizard prompted with a friendly smile.

“The answer is an onion,” Lothíriel replied firmly, like somebody who was perfectly sure of her ground.

Éomer squeezed his eyes shut, not certain if he should laugh or weep. What had made him think that Lothíriel’s train of thought would be anywhere close to that of the ordinary mortal?

“An onion?” Erchirion repeated reflectively. “Yes, I can see that. Absolutely . . . an onion.”

Sure enough a breath of relief went through the group gathered around the fire, and the unease on the men’s faces was slowly and warily replaced by an affectionate amusement. Éomer heard his brother-in-law exhale in a way that left him in no doubt that Erchirion was struggling against his own temptation to laugh. Gandalf wore his customary look, a mixture of omniscience and mirthful serenity, and the way he met the gaze of his young Rohirric friend seemed to ask: what did you expect?

Éomer would have expected that none of his people and most certainly none of his own guard would dare to behave towards their Queen with anything but integrity and discretion. That Lothíriel did not catch on to this unseemly piece of impudence did not matter in the least. Éofor was going to regret having made a misjudgement, a very stupid one, if he thought he was going to get away with trying to throw his Queen off balance. Why he had done it, Éomer felt completely unable to comprehend.

For the moment the Captain managed to avoid his king’s deadly glare, pretending nonchalantly that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. However, now that her mind was no longer wholly fixed on solving the riddle, Lothíriel began to notice that something about the previously comfortable atmosphere had changed. Éomer saw her eyes wandering from one face to the other. They stayed longer on her brother’s with an unmistakable question in her eyes. Obviously not getting the cue she required from Erchirion, her gaze settled on him. Éomer was not quick enough to disguise the anger blazing in his eyes. She frowned, clearly confused by his sudden change of demeanour and once again she looked around, searching for a sign from one of their companions about what she might have missed.

She opened to her mouth to ask a question, which - in all likelihood - would get straight to the heart of the issue, and Éomer’s brain began working so fast that he fleetingly wondered that no steam was coming out of his ears. He tried in vain to find something remotely reasonable to distract her attention but he was saved by a small figure running into him from behind, nearly knocking him over.

“Éomer, will you allow your lady wife to shake a leg with me?”

Having knocked himself off balance by the impact, Meriadoc Brandybuck hopped a couple of times from one foot to the other to regain his stability. He grinned from flushed cheek to flushed cheek, his hair hopelessly tousled. He had shed his frock coat despite the cool night air and was in his shirtsleeves. Just a look at his good-humoured face and Éomer felt the tension easing away from him. All his friends had a special place in his heart and he loved Aragorn as a brother, more than his own life. But somehow just looking at this small man, who had been at Éowyn’s side on the Pelennor and had secured her survival, always made him feel soothed and cheered-up. And he couldn’t help grinning back.

“Are you trying to outdo Gimli, Master Holdwine?”

“I can assure you, my Lord King, I am not attempting to hurt myself or others.” The Hobbit shoved all ten fingers through his hair, not really succeeding in achieving any neatness. “However, I know you avoid getting on the dance floor at all costs, but why should your lady wife be afflicted with your unwillingness? So, if you agree and my Lady would do me the honour, I would like to have a hop with her.”

Éomer turned around to send Lothíriel a questioning glance. “Well, my Lady, can you withstand such an invitation?” he asked.

“I certainly cannot.” Lothíriel got to her feet, addressing Merry. “Just before you mentioned it, Master Brandybuck, a feeling had begun stealing up on me, that – if I depended on my husband’s lead – I would have to do without a good dance tonight.”

“If I had known that you longed to dance I would have made the sacrifice,” Éomer assured her with all the enthusiasm a man would summon up for the pulling of one of his teeth.

Merry rolled his eyes. “There is no need for you to become a martyr,” he set the Rohír’s mind to rest. He stepped into the circle and extended his hand towards Lothíriel, bowing from his waist.  “Will you do me the honour, my Lady?”

“The honour is mine, Master Holdwine.” She put her hand in his, her long, slim fingers making his look quite chubby.

The Hobbit nodded his head to acknowledge the others around the fire. “I beg the fair assembly’s pardon for whisking away this beautiful lady from their company.”

When Lothíriel rose from her seat next to Gandalf, all the men in her company politely got to their feet as well. She smiled at them. “I thank you for letting me participate in your merriment. I found that such a riddle-match is indeed a very engaging entertainment.”

The men murmured their compliments, still struggling with their amusement, but there wasn’t a whiff of maliciousness in their countenances. 

Whilst Lothíriel let herself be escorted from the circle by Merry, she warned the Hobbit, “I am afraid I have never danced to Rohirric tunes before and I do not know the steps.”

“That should not be a problem, my Lady,” Merry assured her gaily. “Neither do I.”

“Well, that statement holds promise,” Gandalf remarked dryly, looking after the unlikely pair. “I feel to continue with the riddles would be rather anticlimactic, do you not all think so?”

“I certainly cannot imagine anything topping it,” Erchirion agreed in a deadpan voice that reminded Éomer very much of his begetter.

“True, true.” The wizard knocked out his pipe on the side of the stump and stored it in a slim, longish pouch hanging from his belt. “My dear fellow riddlers, please excuse me, but I do not want to miss watching the next dance.”

“Neither do I,” Erchirion sided with him. “What about you, Éomer?” he turned to his brother-in-law, but Rohan’s King didn’t pay the Prince any attention. Now that Lothíriel had gone, he had the utmost intention of having a very serious and private ‘conversation’ with his captain. But Éofor had disappeared, taking advantage of the general jumble of a party breaking up. He knew better than to stay anywhere near his King at the present time.

“Where has the scumbag got to?” Éomer growled under his breath before he realized that Erchirion was still close enough to overhear him.

“Well, I suppose you would not have made him a captain of your guard, had he not at least a basic modicum of intelligence, which in turn should enable him to be aware of the fact that right now it would be rather disadvantageous for his personal safety to be left alone with you.”

“Erchirion, could you do me a great favour?” Éomer asked, with poorly concealed impatience.

“Just name it.”

“Try not to sound like Amrothos.”

The Prince’s laugh was one of genuine amusement. “Although I am often tempted to, I cannot deny that as brothers we share certain similarities.”

“I always considered you the only one my wife’s brothers with a certain amount of common sense.”

“Thank you. I think I will take that as a compliment,” Erchirion said straight-faced. “Though I doubt Elphir would agree. Amrothos, however, is very likely to tell you that he intends to resist common sense with his last breath.”

“Éothain made him captain, as it is his responsibility.” Éomer got back abruptly to the original subject. “At the moment I am considering overriding my Marshal’s decision and inquiring of Ælfgyth if she needs somebody to give the latrines a thorough cleaning.”

“After all your wedding guests have left, that should indeed become a necessity,” his brother-in-law agreed thoughtfully.

Éomer couldn’t help a chuckle. “And with your sister you share a pragmatic approach towards things.”

The small lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes deepened as Erchirion’s mouth curved into one of his lazy smiles. “As well as an abundance of common sense.”

“Abundance?” The Rohír pretended to consider that. This was the one of Imrahil’s sons he wouldn’t mind becoming good friends with. “Let us not exaggerate.”

The Prince gave an elegant, one-shoulder shrug. “I suppose common sense is a matter of definition anyway.” They were now solely on their own. “Shall we go and see how your wife is faring on the dance floor?”

“She would not know how not to cut a good figure,” he remarked, a mental image of his graceful wife very clearly before him.

Erchirion tilted his head contemplatively, a habit which reminded Éomer disturbingly of the youngest of the brothers. Not only in their looks were the Princes of Dol Amroth so vexingly alike but also in their mannerisms. The next words, however, caught him flat-footed.

“You do indeed love her, do you not?”

His first reaction was to tell Erchirion to mind his own business. But then he remembered that he had asked Faramir the very same question, in an even more belligerent tone. He should have been more surprised that so far not even Imrahil had wanted assurance of what his true feelings for Lothíriel were. As a matter of fact, not even Lothíriel herself had demanded a declaration of love, just a reason why he had wanted her as his wife. Not that he had not tried to admit the nature of his feelings to her. It had just turned out to be quite challenging to get her focused on the subject.

“Yes, I truly love her.” Lothíriel’s brother was entitled to an answer, one as honest and straightforward as he had expected from Faramir. “Although I did not realize it at the time – or for some time after – I fell in love with her the night she slapped a spirit soaked gaze onto my open wound.”

Erchirion did not bat an eyelid at this revelation, just stated wryly, “That must have hurt.”

Éomer had no intention of specifically confirming the obvious.

“I give you my word, Erchirion; I will always take care of Lothíriel and will protect her with my life. She will not want for anything, if it is in my power to give it to her.”

There it was again, that superficially lazy, inscrutable smile. “My sister does not set great store in worldly goods. All she needs is to be loved and allowed to be herself.  My father trusts you to be the man who can give both those things to her.”

The Rohír wondered if Erchirion refrained from adding ‘for whatever reason’. Not that he had not asked himself the very question. Imrahil had told him when he made his offer that he felt that Éomer would accept Lothíriel’s uniqueness and not try to restrain it. But he had never brought up the issue of love. But then the Lord of Dol Amroth was an exceptionally perceptive man. Perhaps he had known much more from the beginning than the two parties involved.

“Tell me, Erchirion, this Elven blood said to be running in your veins; it does not enable your father to read other people’s minds, does it?”

The Prince’s enigmatic smile turned into a slightly pained grin. “That is a question all of his children have wondered about now and then. It is a rather annoying attribute, I can assure you, but personally I doubt it has anything to do with our one Elven ancestor long ago. And by the way,” he added incidentally, “you have as much Elven blood running through your veins as we have.”

“My famous grandmother,” Éomer snorted dismissively.

“A kinswoman of ours, a cousin to our grandfather, five or six times removed . . .  or something like that.” Erchirion did not sound as if he attached overly great value to his ancestry. “You could ask our aunt Ivriniel. She would know.”

“Not necessary,” the Rohír murmured.

They had begun to move towards the dance floor at a leisurely stroll. In the meantime the space had become much more crowded and two lines of couples moved to a – by Rohirric standards – sedate piece of music. The dance was about to draw to a close, the female and male partners separated and moved in opposite directions. At the end of the dance floor they turned around to face each other, the men, hands on their hips, just stomping from one foot to the other while the women performed a sweeping pirouette, which sent their wide skirts flying.

Éomer caught sight of Lothíriel’s scarlet riding gown. He was quite sure that she had never danced in boots before, but she certainly did cut a good figure. Like he had noticed with Amrothos, she had easily got the hang of the rhythm and the steps. Gracefully she moved back towards the centre of the space, joined hands with Merry, circled once around him, and to the last bars of the music she dropped - like all the female dancers – into a curtsey, while the men bowed deeply.

Musicians and dancers received an enthusiastic applause from their audience. Many had - for the time being – satisfied their appetite, and again a large crowd had gathered around the dance floor to watch and enjoy the music. Benches had been brought over so that elderly people could join in with more comfort, and more than one of the spectators nursed a beaker of ale or wine. Some even held a plate of food, munching happily along.

The musicians struck up another tune and most of the couples – amongst them Lothíriel and Merry – once more took up position, forming a circle, women and men alternating. After a few bars Éomer recognized the piece and couldn’t help grinning. Erchirion caught his expression.

“What is so amusing?”

“I wonder if Lothíriel knows that this particular piece is ðe éonahleapan, the “Dance of the Horses”, imitating their love-play. The most common dance for a wedding.”

“Why am I not surprised that there is such a thing in Rohan.” The Prince critically watched the dancer’s next moves. “I suppose that they are now pawing with their hooves,” he commented. “Shall we expect them to neigh at some point?”

Lothíriel was – no doubt - enjoying herself, although Merry didn’t catch on as quickly to the steps and regularly stumbled into her way, tripping her and breaking her rhythm. But she didn’t seem to mind. And the citizens of Edoras appeared to regard the unaffected young woman, who happened to be their queen and who didn’t care much about keeping up appearances, with friendliness and goodwill.

He had told her after the wedding ceremony that soon they would learn to love and to respect her. He was perfectly convinced of that and not because he was blinded by his own feelings. Lothíriel was always herself; she did not know how to pretend or to play a part. She was through and through genuine. And if his kinsmen appreciated one trait in the character of a fellow man or women, then it was honesty and straightforwardness.

He let his gaze roam over the crowd. For now the people were cheerful, content and relaxed, and he wanted it to stay that way, to be it that way for all men, women and children in Rohan. He wanted peace and prosperity for them. The outside world called them a people of warriors, of savages, but that was not true. They were not aggressive by nature. They hated war and violence as much as any being with half a brain would. But in their short history they had had to defend themselves again and again and they would do so in the future if they had to. That is if their king did not succeed in maintaining peace.

He turned around, searching for and finding Aragorn, where he had left him, sitting together with Imrahil, Legolas and Elfhelm. He knew those four, the men and the elf, felt the same. They wanted to rebuild their realms in peace but they were at any time prepared to defend those entrusted to their care with all their might.

Only the well-being of his people counted. He had to make sure that they could live their lives without worries. That they could do their daily deeds, could laugh and weep, love and quarrel without having to dread the next day.

His wandering gaze came to a halt on his Marshal’s wife. Cynewyn had her hands on her hips, scolding, not him for a change, but her daughter. He wondered what Merewyn had done, but he guessed the evening was over for the curly head. Whatever her misconduct might have been, it seemed likely that the youngest Prince of Dol Amroth was somehow involved. He looked around for Amrothos and found him still – or again – on the dance floor, this time with a pretty lady much better suited to him. Precisely the type that could keep him occupied – day and night.

The circle of dancers moved again, the men pawing with the hooves, an imitation of a love sick stallion, and Éomer’s gaze came to rest on another well-known figure.

“Damnation!”

“I beg your pardon?” Erchirion inquired politely, but when he followed the Rohír’s line of vision, he could make out, without needing a response to his question, what had aroused his brother-in-law’s displeasure. “It seems to me,” he stated, looking with a mixture of amusement and caution at his companion, “that the man lacks the basic instinct of the human race: self-preservation.”

There was no reason to counteract that conclusion. Captain Éofor of the Royal Guard appeared to have every intention of getting into trouble in the foreseeable future. He was on the dance floor, just one couple away from Lothíriel and Merry, and while the women whirled away from their partners to form an inner circle, his eyes were not on his partner but clearly on his Queen.

Éomer uttered a lengthy Rohirric curse – after he had made sure that no youngsters were in their vicinity.

Erchirion raised his brows. “I would be very much interested in the translation of that bit.”

The Rohír couldn’t help but choke out a laugh. “Those were the kind of words our mothers never wanted to hear from us.” But once more he turned serious, a scowl fixing itself on his features. “The way he has been staring at her all night is quite simply an impudence.”

“If I may say so – as her brother –your wife is rather appealing. You cannot always expect all men to look in the opposite direction.”

“It is not just that he is looking, but the way he is looking at her. For Bema’s sake, she is his Queen.” Éomer caught himself growling the last words. Erchirion made a noise that reminded him of one of Amrothos’s annoying giggles.

“Are you upset with the Captain because he is gawping at his Queen or because he is gawping at your wife?”

Good question and just his luck to stand next to another one of his overly perceptive, new kin. He did not want any other man eyeing Lothíriel. Somehow he hadn’t expected it to happen at all. He had spent most of his life in the company of men, and it couldn’t be denied that in such company women were a regular topic of conversation; all kinds of opinions regarding women were traded. And those talks had led him gain the impression that the majority of his own gender preferred the more lush female forms. Bema, before he had encountered the Princess of Dol Amroth he would have regarded himself as one of them.

This dance had ended and he saw Lothíriel happily bantering with a beaming Merry. They apparently had agreed to dance another one together. Hadn’t she complained earlier that he was overexerting her?

Lothíriel was so cool and fine and always so much her own. There was a kind of unique radiance about her. Had he really believed that her beauty was only in the eyes of him, as the beholder? She was beautiful. It was as simple as that and others saw it as well . . . and he didn’t like it. However, Erchirion was right. He couldn’t throttle somebody just because he was looking at his wife. Unfortunately!

Again the dancers were forming two circles, the men on the outside, the women on the inside. This time it took Éomer a while to identify the piece. Usually he tried his best to keep away from any form of dancing, at least when he was expected to partake.

Doing his best to overcome what he refused to call jealousy, he decided to let Erchirion in on the niceties of this particular dance. “Now, this could become highly entertaining indeed. It is a challenge to the dancers by the musicians. After every section they will play the repeat faster. The winner is the party which manages to keep up the pace longest.”

“Our friend Meriadoc could become an obstacle for the dancing party,” Erchirion replied. “I think that was what Mithrandir was looking forward to.”

Turning his attention back to the dance floor, Éomer had to blink several times because he feared something was wrong with his eyesight. But nothing changed. The view stayed just the same. Lothíriel’s partner for this dance was not the Hobbit but Éofor.

TBC

If you are interested in listening to original dance music of the Medieval Ages, here are the links:

The Slow Dance: http://www.monacensis.de/tipps/tanz/Ungaresca/index.php?title=Ungaresca

The Horse Dance : http://www.monacensis.de/tipps/tanz/Branle_de_Chevaux_-_Pferdetanz/index.php?title=Branle_de_Chevaux_-_Pferdetanz

The Challenge: http://www.monacensis.de/tipps/tanz/Schiarazula/index.php?title=Schiarazula

I took the liberty of borrowing the riddle presented by Éofor from the Anglo-Saxons. The more I read about them, the more I am fascinated by their culture. There were anything but primitive.

  Ic eom wunderlicu wiht wiƒum on hyhte,

neahbuendum nyt, nængum sceþþe

burgsittendra nymþe bonan anum.

Staþol min is steapheah; stonde ic on bedde,

neoþan ruh nathwæ. Neþeð hwilum

ful cyrtenu ceorles dohtor,

modwlonc meowle, þæt heo min heaƒod,

ƒegeð mec ƒæsten, ƒeleþ sona

mines gemotes seo þe mec nearwað,

wiƒ wundenlocc – wæt bið þæt eage.

  Anglo-Saxon Riddles

Of the Exeter Book

Riddle No. 25

Translated by John Porter