I feel a cold hand on my heart at the thought, mentioned somewhere above, of Smčagol denying the call to the halls of Mandos and tarrying beside the molten grave of his precious. Where, perhaps, to this day locals still tell tales of a voice often heard on the wind, with a sound of hopeless despair, crying for its precious. Perhaps over hundreds of years a mythical tale of the lost love of a prince developed from the phenomenon. Who could ever suspect the real story, that long, long ago, beyond even the memories of the oldest of the trees, a Hobbit lost a ring?
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"Come away, O human child!/ To the waters and the wild/With a faery hand in hand,/ For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand."
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