Withered
They think that I am dead. Fools. I remember everything. They treated me gently, in spite of their insults. I saw they intended to plant that young usurper in my place. A spindly sapling, but not ill-favored. A promising sprig. I suppose it will survive its first winter in the courtyard.
I rest in Rath Dínen. All that I saw in my long years hung about me like ripe fruit, but they could not pluck it. They pitied me. That small one, Pippin the Wizard called him, said I looked ‘mournful.’ Cheek. They were the ones to be pitied.