Disclaimer: I do not own the Lord of the Rings

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He lies on the soft bed, warmed by the golden sunlight streaming in through the window. He can faintly hear the trilling of the birds outside, hear the steady breathing of the people around him, accompanying him in his last moments. He takes in a deep, labored breath, reveling in the cool clean air, and his heart feels full, just as it has been these past few months.

It is far more than he deserves.

"Are you comfortable?" his young friend asks, his voice quiet. Such a dear boy, he is … so kind, so concerned…

He remembers a cold, dark dwelling with no other sound than the dripping and rippling of the water, and whatever mutterings he made. He remembers the foul taste of raw meat, the way it churned in his stomach… But most of all, he remembers being alone, so alone, with nothing but the poisonous whispers of the-

"What's wrong?" His friend's alarmed voice breaks through his thoughts. Concern is clear in all of the faces in the room, and he find that his heart is touched once again. "Smeagol?"

He startles slightly at the name. It's his (or, at least, he thinks it is), but it feels a little odd and he can't help but wonder once again whether it used to be something else. With a small jolt, he realizes that his eyes are full of unshed tears.

Smeagol shakes himself internally, focusing as much as he can on the here and now that is so pleasant, so peaceful that he must almost fight to believe that it is real. "Nothing, Frodo," he says with a small smile and a small pat on the youth's hand, even though he knows all too well that his friend is in no way a child anymore. "Nothing at all."

He thinks back to that horrible moment in the mountain when he had wrestled the Precious – that horrible, beautiful, special little thing – away from Frodo. He had rejoiced in finally, finally (finally!) holding it again … before realizing in full that he had just bitten his poor, maddened friend's finger off. And everything is so horribly, irreparably wrong because this is not right – and yet, at the same time, it is. It really is … because now, he has the Precious, and he is complete again (isn't he? ISN'T HE?). But he couldn't decide – couldn't truly think – because his dear friend, his kind friend, was now lying on the ground in pain. Because of him.

Because of the Precious.

And suddenly, it didn't seem quite so precious anymore. Smeagol remembered the cold, lonely nights under the mountain that did not live up to the promises of the Precious. He remembered the disgusted looks from family members and friends he couldn't remember anymore (but he remembers the pain of it, of the resentment, and that would always be more than enough). He thought of the dead, terrified face of a friend he had once loved like a brother, whose face was forever frozen in a mix of fear and anger because he had died by greedy, greedy Smeagol's hand.

He closes his eyes, almost painfully, trying to remember the peaceful life he'd led so, so long ago. Tries to recall the faces, the habits, the affection that flowed through him. But most of all, he tries to remember the one he'd wronged so much right from the very beginning.

Smeagol sighs. Poor, poor, Deagol hadn't deserved the end he'd come to. But then, people don't often get the things they deserved, did they?

No, he decides tiredly. No, they don't.

Even now, after abandoning him, it whispered in his mind, because what would become of him if the Precious was gone? What would he do then?! He had NOTHING left! He WAS nothing! Nothing without the Precious!

But before he could do anything, Frodo was fighting with him for the Precious – the Ring, he forced himself to think, because it wasn't precious at all – and they struggled viciously. His poor friend was now consumed just as he had been.

The ring – blasted thing that it was – fell to the ground without bouncing. And wouldn't Smeagol like to pick it up? Wouldn't he like to take it and go back to his little lake under the mountains? After all, the world was such an unpleasant place and-

"ENOUGH!" Smeagol shrieked, so loudly and suddenly that Frodo stumbled back for a moment, his blue eyes wide. "No more! No more! NO MORE!"

And he kicked the ring and all its promises over the ledge, into the boiling lava so many feet below them.

It had brought a little light into his eyes when Sam turned up in his humble room a short while earlier. Smeagol knows that the hobbit had hated him during their trip, but he didn't mind it so much – he hated what he used to be, too – and he'd made an effort in alleviating the animosity between them during their recovery.

"How much time does he left?" Sam quietly asks the kind-eyed old man clad in purest white sitting in the corner of the room. They think he doesn't hear it, but Smeagol's ears are still unnaturally sharp from his time in the caves, though he doesn't like thinking about that, either.

"Not much," Gandalf answers softly. "Today might be it."

"Today is it," Smeagol corrects, and knows deep in his bones that it is true. But before Bilbo, who is sitting by the other side of his bed, can protest, he murmurs, "Please … tell me again … about your adventures."

Bilbo's mouth clicks shut, his lips pinched into a tight line. But finally, he says, "It started on a sunny morning, and I truly thought to myself, 'well, Bilbo, this is going to another normal day for us, isn't that wonderful?' But of course, that meant it would not be a normal day…"

Smeagol listens with closed eyes, and bit by bit, he can feel himself just … slipping away. As if to sleep a sleep that isn't sleep. It's strange, but it's also peaceful and gentle, so much so that even as a tear (or two) slips out of his eyes, he can't find it in himself to mind it very much. And slowly, very slowly, his friend's voice fades away until all there is, is the soft warmth all around him and a quiet contentment that he's almost forgotten the feel of.

And with a final, satisfied breath, he lets go.

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Author's Note: Thank you for reading my first Lord of the Rings fic! I hope you enjoyed it!