And so Meriadoc stood quietly, tears in his eyes, unnoticed and unacknowledged by those around him. Before him lay his weapon, the blade emitting smoke like a dry branch thrust into flames; as he watched, it twisted, shriveled, and was consumed to ash. Thus ended the sword of the Barrow-Downs, forged in the days of Westernesse. The craftsman who carefully shaped it long ago in the North-Kingdom, amidst the early days of the Dunedain and their fight against Angmar and its sorcerer king, would have found honor in its end. No other weapon, no matter how mighty the hand that wielded it, could have struck such a deep wound upon that foe, breaking the curse and severing the dark ties that bound his spirit.