Not by the Hand of Man by eris_of_imladris

Chapter 1

Minas Tirith, Glorfindel supposed, was a little like Gondolin.

The city was tall and gleaming white - at least the parts that weren't damaged in the recent war, or the parts that had been repaired afterwards. There were many families vying for power in various ways, and many others who simply lived their lives, making their way up the stone circles to their livelihoods. If certain rumors were to be believed, there was even a tale of the city's final ruling steward falling from a spire in a similar way that someone had, once ago, in a different yet equally fraught time.

Riding in reminded him of that time so long ago, back when there was a possibility of the Second Age being more peaceful than the First, or that peace could last in a meaningful way. Back then, he had spoken of the doom of the Witch-King in the aftermath of the Battle of Fornost, prophesying that it would not take place in the land of Angmar, and it would not take place for quite some time. Nor would it be by the hand of man, which eliminated nearly everyone there if gender was taken into account. His words had been doubted, even considering that he had returned from Mandos unlike basically anyone else. His words were not taken seriously, and even though Elrond and many others listened to his counsel, the matter of this prophecy had rankled in the back of his mind for quite some time.

And here he was, a thousand years later, about to meet the person who made his words come true at last.

There were some - many, if he was being honest - who wanted to follow the Witch-King as he fled from the host at Fornost. There were some who thought he was weakened enough to defeat at that moment, and that a vague prophecy taking place "far off yet" was not nearly enough to stay their hands. But in the end, everything had come true exactly the way he'd seen it - albeit with a little interpretation. He had no inkling that the first stab to weaken the Witch-King would come from a halfling, and he never could have predicted how said halfling would have even been so far from home to be in the Pelennor Fields in the first place. The one who struck the final blow was only slightly less unlikely because he would have expected Men to be there, although probably not a woman in her very first battle.

For just the day, it was as though expectation and possibility went masked, one as the other. And now, it seemed as though everything was possible - two halflings had taken down Sauron himself, destroying his ring so he could never regain his former power. The Witch-King was nothing more than smoke in the wind, as were the other Ringwraiths Glorfindel himself had fought off to help Frodo towards the beginning of his journey. The world was at peace in a way he had never seen before in either of his lives, and he rode through the White City in triumph, Elladan and Elrohir at his sides as they ascended to the sixth level.

Technically, Glorfindel was there to witness the wedding of Arwen Undómiel to Aragorn, or Elessar, as he was now called. But a wedding could simply not be done in a day - Glorfindel remembered this from the preparation of Elrond's wedding to Celebrían at the beginning of the Third Age - and so he had some time to explore the city, meet those who he wanted to meet. Especially Éowyn, the woman who slew the Witch-King.

His horse's hooves clopped on the stones as he considered everything he knew about the woman. He knew she was from Rohan, the sister of the new king and niece of the old. She had been defending his body, injured to death but not quite dead, when the wraith had come upon her. And it had been her blow, by a completely ordinary sword, that made the ancient evil shatter. Grievously injured, she was healed and met the steward of the city - no longer ruling, but highly respected as a student of lore and practitioner of kindness - to whom she was swiftly betrothed. She would be in the Sixth Circle, he was told by the guards who he asked (who could barely keep their eyes on him, as if he was some sort of legendary creature himself). And so he parted ways with Elladan and Elrohir near the Houses of Healing, leaving the two of them to ride up and find their sister. He had someone else to find.

The steward emerged from his residence quickly when he was told of Glorfindel's presence, and Glorfindel saw in Faramir the twin desires to appear as respectable and honorable as possible and pepper him with every question about bygone ages that he could think of. They spoke of the past for some time, walking around the perimeter of the stone structure he called home during the renovations. In the back, a woman knelt with her hands around a trellis, wrapping a vulnerable-looking plant in its embrace. She turned when Faramir spoke: "Éowyn, this is Lord Glorfindel, who rode with Lord Elrond's host out of Rivendell. And this is my love and the slayer of the Witch-King of Angmar, Lady Éowyn."

Up close, it was easier to see just how young she was, her face unlined, her body tall when she rose from the dirt. She looked completely ordinary, yet she had accomplished the extraordinary - something he had heard about Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, but the deeds of Éowyn of Rohan were no less impressive or difficult in his eyes. Glorfindel had fought the Witch-King so long ago, but he could never forget the ferocity of the combat, the shivers rolling down his spine and the way his sword felt too heavy in his hand even after hundreds of years of fighting.

Éowyn bowed respectfully, then smiled. "So you are the famed Glorfindel," she said. "I have heard your prophetic words repeated so many times that I feel I know you already."

Glorfindel felt the corners of his mouth move up as well. It was refreshing to meet someone who didn't treat him as though he walked on water, not that he would expect such treatment from a warrior of renown. "I could not have done it without you."

"Did you know, then? That it would be a woman in the end?"

Honestly, he hadn't. There were so many meanings to "by the hand of man" that people speculated about over the years. Most of the debates revolved around the Race of Man, but gender was often not considered. There were so few female warriors of note - until now - that the debates had barely touched upon the topic. "I did not," he replied. "I simply knew it would not be by the hand of man, which could mean many things."

"Did anyone even think of a woman?" she asked, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "I suppose they'll have to now, if there are any other prophecies like this one still floating around."

"That would be nice," he said, not usually one for pleasantries but he liked the way his agreement made her smile. He'd heard of her in other ways too - the sadness in her mind, the weariness of life that usually came with millennia of experience rather than a young human's lifetime. It seemed that the happiness at the end of the war was contagious, even for those who experienced its worst parts.

"I think I'll like getting to know you," Éowyn said, and Glorfindel was inclined to agree. Even beyond the point that she had proved his prophecy right, it was intriguing to meet someone known for so many contradictory things - a warrior and a healer, fighting for sadness but living with joy, a woman assumed to be unable to fight who had defeated the most powerful lieutenant of the Enemy. His trip to Minas Tirith would be interesting indeed.