I own nothing.

The Witch-King of Angmar was fairly convinced that he was invincible. He was so convinced, in fact, that even the Elf-Lord Glorfindel's prophecy that he would not be felled by the hand of man (implying that he would be felled by something else) did not faze him at all. What was that supposed to mean, that he would die some accidental death? Preposterous!

So, when he managed to kill the King of Rohan (and to be honest, at the King's age, if having a horse dropped on him hadn't already killed him, he would die eventually), the Witch-King was feeling pretty good about himself. Good enough that when a young knight leapt in front of the King's body, barring him from finishing the old man off, the Witch-King only laughed.

"Hinder me? Thou fool. No living man may hinder me."

But then, the knight laughed, and the Witch-King realized that that was not a very masculine laugh. It was high, and clear, ringing like bells, and utterly unafraid. The knight threw off his—no, her—helm, revealing long golden hair. "But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn am I, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him."

The gray eyes of the warrior bore into his, and the Witch-King was silent as he pondered this turn of events.

The Elf-Lord's prophecy said that no living man would fell him. But this was not a man.

And there was more for him to worry about now.

"Nor am I a man!" a diminutive warrior shouted. "I am a Hobbit!"

"And I am a woman!" another knight shouted, throwing down her helm as Éowyn had done, to reveal fair hair tied in a ratty braid.

"As am I!"

"And I!"

"And I!"

As though he had been plunged into his worst nightmare, the Witch-King realized that he was surrounded by warriors who did not bear the descriptor 'man' in their names. You see, what he had not counted on was the tradition among the Rohirrim for their women to ride into battle disguised as men, and that the men who rode alongside them had a tradition of looking the other way.

The only sensible thing to do was flee. But alas, there was no time. Before he knew what was happening, the Witch-King's fell-beast had been shot out from under him and fell to the ground dead, and he was set upon by more than thirty sharp spears and keen swords.

He was formidable, yes. But he was not invincible.

And he did not pay very much attention to the finicky wording of prophecies. This was his undoing.

Canon dialogue is taken from Return of the King, page 114.