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"As long as I have breath in my body, my fate is my own."
A bold statement made to convince himself he could withstand the darkness in the ring forever, for to be without breath was to be without life.
But even as he approached Minas Morgul, whispers crowding his thoughts, he knew he could not stand forever.
"I am not of darkness yet," he told the Witch King. "And I am not your brother."
But despite banishing him and the rest of the Ringwraiths over and over and over again, they still called to him as one. Join with us, brother. Called him to join them. We welcome you to our ranks. To let the darkness grow. He will bring you peace. But he remembered to breathe.
As the decades passed it grew harder to remember why he was fighting them at all. Forget the past. Forget their faces. Siege after siege, orc after orc raised, their bodies as cold as his own. You will be one of us. He rarely issued commands with his voice anymore, unnecessary effort when his army could be guided by mind against those who called him brother. It is only a matter of time. With so little use for it, breath began to leave him.
They were his brothers, weren't they? You cannot resist us. Why else could he hear them so clearly? You chose this path. He could barely remember his own name but he could remember them.
And, finally, one day he forgot to breathe.
When next his brothers came he went with them willingly.