Swords of the Westernesse, long in chill barrows they waited, till in warm sun awakened.  Little masters strode side by side in laughter and song; the blades were unthought-of, carelessly worn till uruks came and then unsheathed with still gentle hearts, the ancient swords fell touching.  Recovered, both spared from rusty neglect, miles beneath a belt till returned to little hands. Twin blades/twin hearts cast asunder, the elder faced an evil undying, the youth a foe beyond his size. Ah! But tender hands had hardened and fearless were they.  One sword withered, its life it freely gave.  One sword still grasped in broken hand; Beregond saved.  Wraith-bane, Troll-bane, divided forever, but their masters still walk together.