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It is dawn in the Dead Marshes. The sun is rising, but no eye can now see it
through the thick grey blanket grey clouds that come bellying out of Mordor.
The dead lie dreamless in their marshes and light their candles regardless of
expense in the thin daylight. The Hobbits lie like the dead and dream of...
FRODO: The eye of fire.
SAM: The gardens of Elrond.
Time passes. Listen. Time passes.
[ A bird croaks high in the air ]
Only you can see Gollum, padding barefoot through the reeds, eyes screwed tight
down against the unnatural daylight, with three small dead fish in the basket
of his arms. He looks up at the roof of clouds, and remembers other, thicker
grey roofs, in the dripping alleys and coughing sumps deep beneath the Misty
Mountains, where he lost his Precious, and nurses his regret...
GOLLUM: Thief! Baggins! We could have squeezed it right there, my Precious.
Squeezed the breath out of it like the little fisshes, my precious. But it was
tricksey. It got away. This new one now, we could squeeze it while it is sleeping,
my Precious. But the Master was good to Smeagol. But it is still a Baggins,
and we hates it. We can get our fingers around it and give it a...
SAM: Frodo!
GOLLUM: ..nice fish. Smeagol has bought you fish breakfast.