Meriadoc stood there, blinking through his tears, unnoticed by all around him. His gaze fell upon his weapon, the blade smoldering like a dry branch thrust into a fire. As he watched, it twisted and crumbled, consumed by unseen flames. Thus ended the sword of the Barrow-Downs, forged in ancient Westernesse. The craftsman, long forgotten, would have been glad to know of its fate, created in the North-Kingdom when the Dunedain were young and their chief foe was the dark realm of Angmar and its sorcerer king. No other blade, regardless of the strength behind it, could have inflicted such a grievous wound, severing the sorcerous ties that bound the undead flesh to its master’s will.