Meriadoc Stood

Meriadoc stood there, eyes brimming with tears, unnoticed by those around him. Before him lay his weapon, its blade smoldering like a dried branch thrust into flames; as he watched, it twisted, shriveled, and crumbled to ash. Thus ended the sword from the Barrow-Downs, forged in Westernesse. How grateful the ancient smith would have been to know its final destiny — crafted long ago in the Northern Kingdom, when the Dunedain were just beginning, and their greatest enemy was the sinister realm of Angmar and its dark sorcerer king. No other blade, regardless of the strength of the hands wielding it, could have struck such a bitter wound to that foe, cleaving through enchanted flesh and breaking the spell that bound his spectral will to his body.