Herugrim

Wrapped in filthy linens, hidden deep, it waited for years.  Hope faded, long since it seen the sun.  Cold hands, coward’s touch on honest steel forged to protect kings…repulsed, its spirit flamed in anger.  Where rode the lord of the Mark in all his wide lands?  Théoden was still strong enough to hold it …evil stirring …it should be raised in defense, ever only a handbreadth from his side!  At last, a worthy son of Eorl comes to claim it, returning to its master’s fingers—how they tremble. Death and victory; Théoden shall go to his forefathers with pride.