Chapter 1 1: Prologue - I

What is this brief mortal life?

An eternal question that has tormented mankind throughout all of history. I myself wrestled with it many a time, yet never arrived at any answer. Old age and the fleeting nature of life were my greatest enemies. I held no fear of the Orcs of the Misty Mountains, the Trolls of Mordor, or the Dragons of the North. I walked into battle against any foe without hesitation and emerged victorious. My body was a lethal instrument, my swordsmanship unrivaled, my mind the envy of sages, and my beauty comparable to that of the Elves. Yet the Valar saw fit to "bless" us with brevity of life. Men who had marched to war on their behalf, who bled and died with their names on their lips, were rewarded with brevity of life! Even Morgoth was never so cruel. Any creature of darkness may live many times longer than we men. I did not accept this. I had no wish to grow old, to lose all that I was known for, and in the end to die.

I began to seek knowledge of how to prevent it. At first, that knowledge was of medicine. When I understood that it would only prolong my agony, I turned to magic. As a pureblood Númenórean, I possessed the gift of magic, and even here I surpassed all other men. Immersing myself in the world of magic, I was captivated by it, yet the light arts could only replicate what human hands might achieve through labor. Magic eases much of life's burden, but all of it can be accomplished through the sweat and toil of man. Time passed, and in my desperation I turned to the darkest branches of magic, though knowledge there was critically scarce.

With each passing year, staring into the mirror, hopelessness consumed me. And in my darkest hour, hope was found. A rumor spread that on the border there dwelled a wizard, sent by the Valar to aid the race of Men. I set out to find him without a moment's hesitation. Seven days it took me. And there he was: a tall, slightly lean man with silver hair and golden eyes. Annatar, the Lord of Gifts, who had come to bestow upon men the wisdom and knowledge of the Valar.

It was the first and last time I prayed and gave thanks to the Valar. I offered him a home in my castle and, reining in my pride, asked him as courteously as I could to teach me the secrets of magic. He agreed. And so days flowed into weeks, weeks into years of study. I made considerable progress in magic, but I wanted more. I asked whether there was a way to expand my magical source.

"Why? You already possess an extraordinary well of magic, and you absorb knowledge of it the way a desert drinks water. You will become one of the greatest mages in all of history regardless."

"I have no wish to be one among many. I wish to be great enough to cast off every chain that binds me."

To this he merely gave a quiet hum. In the sessions that followed, he began to broaden my magical capacity by transferring his own magic into me. It was hot, pressing, straining to dominate, and suffused with a hatred for all living things. After this I began to suspect that something was wrong, yet I did not care.

Before I could so much as look around, I was drinking in the most vile magical practices with joy and hunger. But again, it did not trouble me. Through Annatar I was able to considerably extend my life. Soon my tutelage came to an end. I begged him fervently to stay, yet he said he had fulfilled his charge and would depart to continue aiding the people of the world. Out of respect I did not stand in his way, and even helped him on his way. At the moment of parting, Annatar gave me a ring of extraordinary beauty, one that could prolong life through magic and amplify it in turn. A royal gift. But he forgot to mention one small detail: the ring enslaved me.

An immense reserve of personal magic, an iron will, unbending pride, and a fear of death kept me from becoming the ring's thrall. Two hundred and thirty-four years I lived in a constant inner war. Then, at the close of one of those years, he came to me and said that besides myself, eight others had been "honored" with his gift, yet the last of them had fallen eighty years prior. Annatar praised me endlessly. It turned out that in the unending inner war I had done grievous damage to my soul, nearly none of it remaining, and this delighted Annatar greatly. In his admiration he offered to let me stop tormenting myself, to surrender the ring and be permitted to die in peace. I made my greatest mistake: I refused. He left without another word.

Two months later, all that remained of my soul was a small, withered fragment, too weak to resist, and the ring took me.

Middle-earth remembered me as the Witch-king of Angmar.

And then... Decades of bloody war later, light came to replace the darkness. One unlikely hero accomplished the impossible. Death came: the death of Sauron. The death of his dominion. And the death of the Nazgûl.

They were free. The souls that had been tormented in darkness for centuries found their freedom and their light. But of the Witch-king's soul, only that small withered fragment remained, and it scattered almost at once.

Not even the Valar know where it went.

...

Vale of Arryn. Runestone. 274 AC.

"Push, my lady, push."

"AAAH, it hurts so much!!!" cried a young girl with black hair and grey eyes.

"Just a little more, the head is already coming."

"AAAAH!!!"

For fifteen minutes the only sounds in the room were the girl's screams and the old maester's encouragements. But all things come to an end, and a newborn's loud cry filled the chamber. Three people stood watching from behind: a father and his two sons.

"HOW?! You are her brothers, you were supposed to guard her honor!!! Why am I only learning of this now?!"

"Father, we were occupied and couldn't keep a proper watch over Elena."

"You brainless idiots! What in the seven hells were you so busily occupied with that you let your sister's dishonor slip right past you? Riding from tourney to tourney, bedding whores, or gorging yourselves at feasts? Never mind all that. How did you manage to miss an entire pregnancy? How thick does a man have to be to miss that?!"

The two young men's faces burned with shame. Not everything he listed was true, but most of it was. Besides, it was useless now to argue that their sister had simply played them for fools. The first two months there had been nothing suspicious. Then she had decided to visit some close friends and was gone for half a year. And when she returned and the brothers saw that she was with child, they wrote to their father in the capital. He sailed back in record time, and punishment fell on everyone. The knights who had failed to inform their lord. The servants were nearly put to death, but Elena pleaded for them and they escaped with only a flogging. The brothers, despite being grown men of age, were scolded publicly. They could face anyone else for two days afterward. Yet even so, their father could not calm himself. The only one who had temporarily escaped his fury was Elena, on account of her condition. But afterward... an interrogation with full insistence, and then the scolding.

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