Twas dark of day when Dernhelm, young rode down to the Pelennor,
There was no light, and so it seemed there’d never be anymore.

Atop his horse he rode like wind through a battle stricken land,
On the hilt of his sword, gloved and mailed, rested his steady hand.

With the Halfling, Merry, at his back he rode across the field,
A shining sword from the Barrow-downs the hobbit, small, did wield.

As they slowed to a stop, they saw a sight that few had ever seen,
The Witchking, tall, upon his beast flew down to the field of green.

His crown was black as eternal night, his eyes burned like red flames,
His mace was dark and black it shone, twas Dernhelm he hoped to maim.

The shadow came, Windfola reared, the riders fell to the ground,
And from that day, the horse ran free, never again to be found.

But Dernhelm stood, he did not quail, he stayed near his fallen king,
He drew his sword and with that move, his voice had a newfound ring.

“Begone!” he said, and with those words the loyal soldier did call,
“Leave the dead in peace!” his voice was strong, he felt he could not fall.

Black Captain thought him then a fool, and now with a cold, black speech:
“No living man may hinder me!” and the wingéd steed did screech.

As for Dernhelm, he laughed and said, “But no living man am I!”
And lo! For Dernhelm was not there: Lady Éowyn stood high!

Her helmet was laying on the ground, she raised her shield and sword,
Down her shoulders her long hair flowed, like gold from a dragon’s hoard.

And Merry stared with wide, round eyes, she looked so brave, yet so fair,
He looked at Éowyn, and he thought she should not die right there.

Then as the Black Captain, on his beast, turned to strike the lady,
She stood steadfast with sword in hand, ready to face her doom’s day.

The evil beast leaped into the air, then flew down with such speed,
And all who beheld the shadow there, fell before the black steed.

So as it struck fair Éowyn, the maiden had one defense,
She aimed a blow at the bending neck, the head fell: its expense.

The fair one then fell to the ground, under the creature’s dead weight,
The black one rose, and in his eyes was a look of utter hate.

And then he broke her shield and her arm, and raised his mace to kill,
But as he did, he stumbled and his sword did not do his will.

Merry, so small, had come up behind and stabbed the Captain’s knee,
He urged Éowyn on, and so she rose and one last hack gave she.

Her sword pieced through the hooded head, the crown fell on grass of green,
She landed on her enemy’s corpse, only his robes were seen.

That evil had no form now, its spirit was swept to the sky,
And Merry the hobbit, brave, but sad, had just begun to cry.

For his good friend, Lady Éowyn, lay dead now on the field,
But it was all right, though Merry knew not, she would soon be healed.

And for all the years after that, the whole land lived well in peace,
Merry and Éowyn lived for a time until their years would cease.

And here ends the tale of a maiden brave, and a hobbit stout,
Who show the world that you’re never too small to help someone out.