Хранители

‘It is mine, I tell you. My own. My Precious. Yes, my Precious.’

Hobbits give presents to other people on their own birthdays. Not very expensive ones, as a rule, and not so lavishly as on this occasion; but it was not a bad system. Actually in Hobbiton and Bywater every day in the year was somebody’s birthday, so that every hobbit in those parts had a fair chance of at least one present at least once a week. But they never got tired of them.

That was Gandalf’s mark, of course, and the old man was Gandalf the Wizard, whose fame in the Shire was due mainly to his skill with fires, smokes, and lights. His real business was far more difficult and dangerous, but the Shire-folk knew nothing about it. To them he was just one of the ‘attractions’ at the Party.

An old man was driving it all alone. He wore a tall pointed blue hat, a long grey cloak, and a silver scarf. He had a long white beard and bushy eyebrows that stuck out beyond the brim of his hat.

"— Нам всем тяжело, всем, кто живет в наше смутное время. Каждый из нас обречен на потери. Но тебя-то не назовешь бедным и несчастным: ты не потерял самого себя — а это самая горькая потеря. В тяжёлое мгновение ты остался с друзьями — и ничем не замутненная память о счастье будет тебе пожизненной наградой."

Здесь надпись, что-то на эльфийском, я не могу прочитать