Candle, beautiful candle, I come from the depths of dark deceptions and diabolical horrors. The necromancer and the castle of desires are by now behind me, yet I can still hear the terrifying clamor of croaks and the hoarse, growling snarls of furious dragons and spirits. I have seen silver, touched gold, gathered gems, but in the end, I stole you, who I now hold in my hands. I have crossed courtyards, halls, and corridors; whilst guardian gorgons observed my every move and they noticed the theft, yet now I am here in the forest, and night has already fallen. I walk towards the land between the mountains and the sea to the lost kingdom of the Dúnedain, where the sacred heirs of Númenor were consecrated on the rock of Minas Anor and the legend of Narsil, broken by the Dark Lord, forged by Telchar of Nogrod at the feet of Ered Lindon in the First Age. Although, you know that, deep down, my heart belongs solely to the green meadows of the Gorner Gorge and the peak which Edward Whymper and Michel Croz illuminated in the Napoleonic century. The valley and the horn engulfed by the father. Candle, beautiful candle, I walk three days and three nights without looking back, no matter what I hear. Candle, beautiful candle, if I were to stop at a single caress, I would find myself astray.