The battlefield raged with chaos, the sounds of steel clashing and cries of war filling the air. Amid the carnage, Éowyn stood defiant before the towering form of the Witch-king of Angmar, her breath coming in short gasps, her arm trembling slightly from the weight of her sword. Despite the fear curling in her stomach, her resolve burned brighter. She would not retreat. Not now.

The Witch-king loomed over her, his iron crown balanced atop a spectral visage wreathed in shadow. His voice, a deep and resonant growl, echoed with malice.
"You fool," he sneered, extending his gauntleted hand with an almost lazy menace. "No man can kill me."

Before Éowyn could react, his hand shot forward with the swiftness of a striking viper. His cold, vice-like grip closed around her throat, lifting her off the ground as if she weighed nothing. Her boots dangled helplessly, the world blurring around her as the unearthly chill of his touch seeped into her very bones.

"Die now," the Witch-king hissed, his voice vibrating with cruel certainty.

From behind, unnoticed amidst the din of battle, a small figure crawled through the blood-soaked mud. Merry, bruised and bloodied but alive, forced himself forward, clutching his blade. His heart hammered in his chest, fear threatening to freeze him, but he pressed on, recalling Éowyn's bravery and the desperate need to protect her.

Gritting his teeth, he reached the Witch-king's towering form. With every ounce of strength left in his body, Merry drove his sword into the back of the Witch-king's knee, piercing through the dark armor and into whatever unholy form resided within.

The Witch-king let out a piercing, guttural scream, a sound that cut through the noise of the battlefield like a blade. His grip on Éowyn slackened, and she fell to the ground, gasping for air as she clutched at her bruised neck.

The Witch-king staggered, falling to one knee, his massive frame trembling with fury and pain. He turned his gaze toward Merry, who lay collapsed on the ground, clutching his arm as a strange burning pain coursed through it—the blade he had used seemed to radiate a dark energy, seeping into his very being.

"You wretched insect!" the Witch-king spat, his voice a mix of rage and agony.

Éowyn, still coughing and dazed, forced herself to her feet. Her sword was still in her hand, though her arm felt like lead. Her heart pounded as she stepped forward, drawing the Witch-king's attention back to her.

Slowly, with purpose, she removed her helmet, letting her golden hair spill free, her eyes blazing with defiance. The Witch-king recoiled slightly, as if confused by the sight before him.

"I am no man," Éowyn declared, her voice steady and fierce despite the pain in her throat.

With a cry of righteous fury, she plunged her sword into the spectral space beneath the Witch-king's iron crown. There was no flesh to pierce, only an icy void that resisted for a heartbeat before shattering under the force of her strike.

A blinding flash of light erupted from the Witch-king's form, sparks flying as his shriek rose into an unbearable crescendo. Éowyn was thrown backward, her sword ripped from her grasp as the Witch-king's ethereal body convulsed, folding inward upon itself.

He screamed, a sound filled with hatred and despair, as his form disintegrated into nothingness. The crown toppled to the ground with a hollow clang, the battlefield falling eerily silent for a moment as if the world itself held its breath.

Éowyn lay on the ground, her chest heaving. Her vision swam, but she forced herself to sit up, searching for Merry. She found him nearby, pale and trembling, clutching his arm. Crawling to him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, her voice soft despite her exhaustion.

"Merry... you did it," she whispered, her eyes filled with gratitude and concern.

He looked up at her, his face twisted in pain, but managed a weak smile. "No... we did it."

As they knelt together amidst the wreckage, the sun began to break through the clouds, casting its light on the battlefield. The shadow of the Witch-king had passed, but the toll of the fight weighed heavily on them both. Yet, in their shared determination, they had turned the tide of despair into hope.