No Living Man
by Sauron Gorthaur

Who is the rider I see, with a helm on his fair head?
Who is the rider I see, with a cuirass of gold and red?
Who is the rider I see, whose spear glints in failing light?
Who is the rider I see, who rides to a hopeless fight?
Who is the rider I see, who yet rides out bravely to war?
Who is the rider I see, who may fall at Pelennor?
That rider there, beside the king, Dernhelm is his name.
He rides to battle bravely; with the Eorlingas he came.
Of the king's guard is he, brave of heart and strong of limb.
He does not flinch at battle, warrior of the Rohirrim.
Now they are charging, they race down the hill towards the plain.
Alas, for they, bravest of brave, may not return this way again.
For, alas, from the sky a horror does come,
A shadow from which all flee and all run.
Its winged steed cries out, its fell voice ringing.
Its master, the Nazgûl, death and terror is bringing.
It comes from the sky and lands by the king, alas for the king!
Snowmane, noble mearas steed, in terror, from his back Théoden flings.
King's steed, Snowmane, overbalances, screams and falls to the earth.
Théoden King is trapped, much to the Nazgûl's mirth.
The king lays stricken beneath steed's body; pain overwhelms.
The Nazgûl steps forward, but a warrior comes forth. It is Dernhelm.
"Stand back O you terror, leave the dead to rest in peace."
Laughed Nazgûl Lord, "Fool, stand aside. No living man may hinder me."
"Then stand back, foul dwimmerlaik, this is my kin.
No living man am I. My name: Éowyn."
As the Nazgûl stops as in doubt and surprise,
Éowyn cleaves the fell beast's head from its neck; fire gleams in her eyes.
The Nazgûl Lord lets out a cry of anger and hate.
Éowyn stands bravely, valiantly awaiting her fate.
The Lord of the Nine raises a mace, O terrible mace.
A blood-chilling cry blasts into the shieldmaiden's face.
Nazgûl Lord swings the mace, crushes her arm, shatters her shield.
Éowyn falls, wounded and battered, but not yet ready to yield.
But look! Look there! A quiet, small figure does creep.
Behind the great Witch-King he comes, and up he does leap.
The Nazgûl shrieks, a cry of most terrible pain.
Meriadoc the Halfling of the Mark strikes yet again.
Éowyn Shieldmaiden rises, wounded, from her place on the ground.
She strikes the Nazgûl between mantle and crown.
Shieldmaiden and halfling, they stumble and fall back.
They weaken, the strength leaves them; they have touched the rider of black.
There is a lull in the battle, the enemy turns and stares.
All that remains of Nazgûl Lord is the cloak that he wears.
O Éowyn, brave Éowyn, tales will be told throughout the land
Of the brave Rohirrim, who was no living man.