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Anguirel prepared to seamlessly sachay, as ever, back into the Barrowdowns, and continue to practice worthy activities such as lynching, er, evicting, Hobbits, mourning Maeglin, and marshalling nasty Coavalta. He had always regarded the entrance to the Downs as something to be taken for granted, a mere formality, for such a distinguished Talking Sword as he. He scoffed at mere Wights, picnicking Dunedain, White Wargs, frolicking hobbits. No such obstacles would impede him! Sa-ha! Crunch.
One of the hills had elongated and heightened. It was now a massive fossa and defensive wall, and the complacent blade had just sliced into it. He cursed in a horrible, sharp, harsh voice, but the Connection Wraiths merely cackled in reply. He flailed the length of his body, cutting swathes around him, but the wall seemed endless. At last, realising that he was-shock horror!-in danger of becoming blunt, he backed out, admitting defeat, his proud spirit broken.
It was a humbled, suppliant sword that returned the next morning; Anguirel was ready even to be silent for a week, if he could only be let in! Thank Eru this time there was no resistance. Hearing of revelry where his sorrows could be drowned, he slid over in search of a nice comfortable anvil...
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