but to do what is in us for the succour of those years wherein we are set, uprooting the evil in the fields that we know, so that those who live after may have clean earth to till. What weather they shall have is not ours to rule.
For a fleeting moment, could one of the sleepers have seen him, they would have thought that they beheld an old weary hobbit, shrunken by the years that had carried him far beyond his time, beyond friends and kin, and the fields and streams of youth, an old starved pitiable thing.
Frodo set us up with this guy called Gollum, and he’s supposed to like, take us to Mordor and get us there secretly and stuff. And seriously like, I don’t wanna be a bitch, but he’s like, the fugliest guy I’ve ever met in my life.
“Naughty little fly. Why does he cry? Caught in a web. Soon you’ll be… eaten.” “We wants it, we needs it. Must have the precious. They stole it from us. Sneaky little hobbitses. Wicked, tricksy, false!”