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But I withstood, and now raise my hand to fling it into the fire. The reflections on the tiny circle catch my eye. So beautiful, so vulnerable. So afraid. I feel its terror pulse like waves of heat from the molten stone below.
It pleads, entreats, begs, only to survive. Failing, it grows desperate, and grovels whimpering before me. Master…
I am no destroyer.
My hand falls.
Forgive me, Gandalf….
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