And yet there stood Meriadoc, his eyes glistening with tears, unnoticed by all around him. His thoughts drifted in silence, and lo! before him lay his weapon, its blade smoldering as if a dry branch thrust into flame. As he watched, it twisted and shrank, consumed by an unseen fire. Thus ended the sword of the Barrow-Downs, forged in Westernesse. How glad the ancient smith would have been to witness this fate, he who shaped it long ago in the North-Kingdom when the Dunedain were in their youth, and their greatest enemy was the fearsome realm of Angmar and its sorcerer king. No other sword, even in stronger hands, could have inflicted such a grievous wound on that foe, severing the enchantment binding the undead to his dark will.