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No one knows where the poem Eowulf was composed, or by whom, when or why. The poem, having survived the ages through pieced-together legends passed down through generations, was finally pieced together and recorded for posterity in the most recent century. What follows is an excerpt:
A great shadow descended
Horrific winged creature with wicked rider
A threatening shape, black-mantled, with a crown of steel
Between rim and robe only a deadly gleam of eyes
A great black mace he wielded
Theoden’s knights lay slain about him
Yet one stood there still—Dernhelm
Faithful beyond fear, with Merry at his side
This bloody battle, to stand til the fighting
Is done. Or war will sweep them to bitter death.
Meaning to stand, not run from the deadly eyes,
To stand between the Nazgul and his prey, to protect
The King, to stand til fate decides which side wins.
No man could hope to defeat this horrible monster
No man could try. Yet a sword rang out as it was drawn.
No living man was she—the Nazgul looked upon a woman
The shield-maiden Eowulf, protecting her lord and kin
The winged creature screamed at her defiance, whilst
Its rider was silent, suddenly
Doubting the fate he’d forseen
Then, slow-kindled courage, Merry crawled
To face their foe, for pity of she called Dernhelm
Unbeknownst to the deadly eyes of their enemy
Their malice drawn to the woman before him
Merry clenched his sword—let her not face death unaided
Eowulf, helm of her secrecy fallen,
So fair and so desperate
Eyes grey, hard and fell, tears on her cheek
Sword in her hand, shield raised, her face
Of one seeking death, having no hope
The great beast beats its hideous wings
Giving wind of its foul stench
As it swiftly fell down upon Eowulf,
Shrieking and striking, set on slaughter
Wretched and horrific mass brandishing beak and claw
She did not flinch—swift stroke she dealt, skilled, deadly
Her sword sliced cleanly its outstretched neck,
Its hewn head fell like a stone
She sprang back as the huge shape crumpled and shadow passed
A light fell about her, her hair shone in the sunrise
Alas, from the wreckage, the Black Rider rose,
Tall and threatening, towering above her
He vented his mace with a venomous shriek
Shattering her shield and arm into shivers
To her knees she stumbled. He raised his mace to kill.
Suddenly stumbling, shrieking, his stroke went wide,
Merry’s sword had stabbed him from behind,
Piercing the sinew behind his mighty knee.
Eowulf! Eowulf! She struggled and rose, still brave, still strong
With her last strength, driving her sword twixt crown and mantle
Her sword sparkled as it shattered into many shards
As the crown rolled away with a clang,
Its cry faded to shrill wailing as the air shuddered
The wind swallowed the bodiless voice,
Never to sound again in that age of this world.
Eowulf fell forward upon her fallen, now shapeless, foe
Merry stood in the midst of the slain,
His sorrow, his tears blinding him, through a mist
He looked on fair Eowulf, she lay and did not move
Her victory worthy of a song