Chapter Text
I do not know how old I am. Older than I have any right to be, I suppose.
Memories of my childhood are hazy.
I remember the choking fumes, I remember being put to work alongside the Nurnhoth, and I remember them looking upon me with disdain. I did not understand the reason for it then, but I do now.
I do not blame them for it. I bear my father’s black-blood, and it is something worthy of disdain.
The first thing I truly remember, that is the earliest thing I recall vividly enough to give an account of, is a fight. I think the terror has etched it into my mind.
I had been taken to a place named Thorzhaf. They called it a battle arena, but it was closer to a prison. Not all the combatants were there against their will of course, many were simply bloodthirsty and sought glory and violence here, but many others were only there to be the skulls they crushed to achieve it.
That was meant to be my role.
Facing me on the fighting bridge was an orc, unremarkable in size, but at the time I was scarcely half of his height.
I was terrified, but it is humorous to think of it now, for I was somehow the victor. The fight may have been a joke, but one with an unexpected punchline.
My opponent seemed to find it less funny, judging by the expression on his face as I, a child, sent him plummeting into the spike pit below.
He learned far too late what a deadly mistake it was to underestimate your opponent, and that when cornered and driven mad with fear, even a pup can make a formidable foe.
Perhaps I owe part of that victory to this Black-Númenórean Blood I curse myself for, it is said to hold great strength after all, but I would rather not give such credit to my forebearer.
That victory was my own. Hard won, and only the first of many.
Nearly every day I must fight for the right to live. Nearly every day I must take a life to prolong my own. I find no joy in it, but I continue regardless.
Why do I still claw at fate with bloody knuckles for life that no one deems me worthy of, why cling so desperately to such a miserable existence? A wiser woman might have given up by now, but out of all the titles I have earned in this place, ‘wise’ is not one of them.
I continue to live out of spite, mostly. Fear and spite.
I am afraid of death, and I refuse to be the punchline of this cruel joke my life was meant to be.
I will not die for their entertainment, I will not be another skull to crush, I will not allow anyone to stand laughing over my corpse while the dark sea of onlookers cheer.
My first clear memory is that of fighting for my life on that bridge, and I expect my last to be the same, but I will not make it easy for them.
That is the only choice I was ever allowed to make.
I am The Undying. To face me is to face death.