We had waited an eternity.
An eternity spent in these vast, crumbling halls, each of us riddled with battle wounds and the slow decay of our ghostly flesh.
Every day was a life of Man, every year a life-age. And still we waited, ever in unrest and guilt, because we had broken our oath to Elendil's house.
I was not the least guilty, but neither was I the most.
Not the least, because I had not held true to my word – and not the most because I had been commanded to break it.
With every well-meaning oath of loyalty comes also a measure of ill-meaning. I would have betrayed one king or another either way. By keeping my word to the king of Numenor, I would have broken my word to my own king, in whom my fealty was kept.
And so, when the Heir came, it was the first thing that had happened since the days of Bregu the Bold.
Secretly, I was glad for it, because it meant that something was going to happen. Nothing had happened in our decaying halls for centuries, and we were weary souls, but we were trapped.