Her bright hair gleamed with pale gold,
Eyes grey as the sea, tears on her cheek.
Sword in her hand and shield raised
Against the horror of her enemy's eyes.
Maiden of Rohirrim, child of kings,
Fair yet terrible.
A swift stroke she dealt, skilled and deadly.
Light fell about her.
Struggling up with her last strength,
She drove her sword between crown and mantle.
A cry went up into the shuddering air
And faded to shrill wailing.
A voice, bodiless and thin
Was swallowed up and never heard again
In that age of this world.