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Frodo met a strange man in The Prancing Pony
'Strange' is not an accurate term to describe him, Frodo thought, if he was to be fair. The man was tall, lean, and beyond all, handsome. His face was half-concealed beneath his hood, but it did not hide his statuesque jawline, fair skin, and two thick, loosely tied braids. He carried himself with an almost regal air - it would not be difficult to picture him in a palace, dining amidst lords and ladies instead. Strange wasn't the word for him; rather, it was his presence in this modest, remote inn that was unusual.
After sharing a beer (or perhaps a few) and engaging in amiable conversations, Frodo and his Hobbit companions found themselves in a room on the second floor, alone with this stranger. He had invited them to his room, suggesting the noise below was too loud for a conversation. His voice were like music even when he tried to keep the volume down, his words warm and inviting, it felt like the most sensible thing to agree with everything he said.
The stranger turned around and closed the door before Frodo can regret his decisions. Then, he removed his hood.
The dimly-lit room suddenly seemed to have brighten up. Frodo found himself gazing at the warmest blue eyes he had ever seen, so bright that it seems pure light shone from within. His skin was so fair it was nearly translucent, radiating an ethereal aura. A simple, elegant silver circlet with a moonstone sit lightly on the stranger's forehead. And his ears... pointed. An elf, Frodo realized in awe.
"Hello, my friends," the elf greeted them, his voice no longer needing to be kept low, resonated with Power around the room
Were it not for Strider, he would handed the stranger elf the Ring.
What happened in the inn, and those that followed, passed in a blur. How most peculiar it is, to meet two strangers in the same inn on the same day!
It was much harder to trust Strider, mysteriously clad in black hood, compared with the strange elf's friendly and bright demeanor. Frodo still did not know what compelled him to still his hand for offering the Ring.
Now, sitting safely in the halls of the Last Homely House, sipping hot flower tea, Frodo's mind was still a whirlwind of confusion.
After they escaped the inn with Strider, the elf had pursued them. His horsemanship was effortless, like a seasoned cavalry general. It was only at the border of Imladris that he halted, upon seeing Lord Elrond riding out with a small squadron to receive them.
The elf smiled, raised his sword as if saluting, and then turned away, his braids tracing a graceful arc in the air.
His face looked somewhat familiar. Now that Frodo was sitting opposite Lord Elrond, he couldn't help but to muse. Almost like the Lord of Imladris himself.
"Yes, he felt familiar too. Like a kin or even a relative," Lord Elrond nodded in agreement. Frodo was embarrassed to realize he had spoken his mind out aloud, but Lord Elrond did not seem to have taken any offence.
"If he was after the Ring for Sauron, he would be one of the nine Ring Wraiths. Yet, I sensed little malice or ill will... Unlike the twisted creatures we have battled before." Elrond mused. "He must have been their King, the Witch-King of Angmar. "
The Witch-King of Angmar, as the ancient tales of the Second Age recount, was a figure unlike his sinister, shadow-lurking subordinates. He felt almost as if made of light, as beautiful as he was deadly.
Glofindel, the ancient warrior returned from death, once foretold his fate: "Not by the hand of man shall he fall."
And truly, he was invincible in battle, unmatched by any army.
His unbroken streak of victories was finally stopped at Battle of the Pelennor Fields, when another stranger rode to the battlefield.
Towering and imposing, this newcomer immediately drew all eyes. Unconventionally, he carried a long sword on the opposite side to which most men would, a detail Frodo later understood when he saw a stump at where the stranger's right hand should have been.
He rode forth to face the Witch King, shielding Frodo and the retreating Gondor forces behind him.
"It's time we put this to an end!" The rider declared, his voice echoing across the battlefield.
At the sound, the Witch-King turned, and frozen when he caught sight of the new comer for the first time.
One of the lesser Ringwraiths roared beside him, "You fool, no man can kill him!"
In one smooth motion, the tall figure removed his helmet with his left hand, and long, flowing copper-red hair jumped to sight like burning fire.
"I am no man."