Three hobbits walked steadily through a rather dry and thick forest. If one had looked upon them, though, they would have sworn it was only two, with some strange, wily wretch of a creature. But it didn't matter what others thought, only those three. For they controlled the fate of the world.
Gollum walked ahead, his body crawling low to the ground. Sam, then Frodo followed closely behind. The forest was that of Ithilien, and each step brought them closer and closer to Mordor. The climate was warm, and the occasional chirps of birds were heard, but were still rare. No doubt that was due to the proximity of the dark land, with the lidless eye ever watching.
Trees were packed closely together, vegetation thick and lush. It was a relief to Sam and Frodo, who felt it was the most favorable land they had traveled through since they left the fellowship. Their worlds were slightly brighter, despite the ever-encroaching dread they all felt. The experience with Faramir was one they would not want to relive, despite the fact that it
seemed to drive them all the more forward.
The atmosphere was packed with emotion. Tension bred in the thick, humid air. Gollum's pace was even more hurried than usual, causing the other hobbits to scramble after him at a fast walk. Still, the path was hard, tiring, and was almost deliberately chosen as such.
Frodo tried his best to keep pace with the former Ring-bearer and, as he nearly tripped over a log, realized they had to slow down. "Sméagol!" he called up ahead. "Please, slow down!"
Gollum stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Make haste! Make haste! Wraiths close, they see master, we must go!"
But this did not sway Frodo. "Yes, they saw master. And yes, they are near. But I cannot keep up, Sméagol. And if I fall and become injured..." But he never finished the sentence; Sam broke in.
"And if you're the cause of 'im gettin' hurt..." Sam began in a deep and threatening tone. Sméagol's eyes grew, and he began to shrink backwards. This immediately prompted Frodo to react.
"Sam, it's all right," he said as he grabbed his companion's shoulder. "He didn't mean anything by it. I'm sure he's just frightened." Samwise eased off, but his gaze was strangely not as harsh as it would have usually been. Something about him was different, changed, unusual. His gaze turned back to Gollum, whose focus was switching between the two.
The older hobbit turned back and started off again. He was careful to go more slowly this time, but he continued to mutter to himself under his breath, none of it decipherable by the two other hobbits. They did notice that Gollum seemed ever odder than usual, and Frodo couldn't help but feel that Sam looked upon him with a new curiosity, like he suddenly understood what
the creature was going through.
In reality Sam simply didn't know how to feel. After Frodo nearly killed him, he knew the Ring was having its effect on his best friend, knew it was changing him. And now that he saw its effect on his master in the form of attempted murder, he began to see the effect in full in Sméagol.
But his pity had not taken full in Gollum yet. He watched him with eagle eyes... and strangely enough, he found himself looking at Frodo in almost the same manner.
Up the line, Gollum stopped. He sniffed the humid air, turning his head on his spindly neck. With a sigh, he sat down and began to paw at the dirt, muttering again. Ahead was a tower like a rock formation, shafts of light illuminating it through the dark and dreary forest. There appeared to be no real way around it; rocks and boulders were everywhere.
Panting heavily, the other hobbits finally caught up. Apparently, Sméagol had never meant to slow down at all. He didn't remember this formation; in fact, he didn't think he had come across this turn before, either. He hated to admit it, but he was lost.
"We is lossst, lossst, precious," his Gollum side admitted. A slight wind came along and sent the last remnants of his hair waving in the wind, sweeping over his pale face. "Don't tell the nasty hobbitses. They hates us! Hates us both!"
Frodo stopped and watched the crouched figure. Gollum turned to look at them both. "Up there, up there! Good Sméagol will go first!" he cried out in his most innocent tone as his slinker side won out for a few choice minutes.
And with that, he began his ascent up the small tower of rock, hands expertly clutching the crags of stone, crawling up the face with speed and vigor unlike any before. He was halfway up before the other two said anything.
"Just what do you think you're doing?" Sam yelled from below. Sméagol stopped for a moment on a ledge and looked down to his confused companions.
"Sam hobbit must follow, hurry hobbitses, hurry!"
"No I will not! There is no..." But he stopped as he noticed Frodo was beginning to climb up after Gollum. "Frodo! It's too dangerous!" He ran over to him.
"Sam, I'm tired of arguing. He hasn't gotten us hurt yet." And with a rather tired and irritated look, he turned and gained a foothold. Gollum's expression was that of relief; he sat and waited for his kind master to make his way up. Sam let out an angry and irritated breath, then gruffly followed suit.
Sam was terrible at rock climbing, Frodo noticed. But then, he was not much better himself. They made their way up several feet, and it wasn't until then that their guide started his way up again. Frodo slipped a bit and bruised his hand a little. He cried out, then put the victimized finger in his mouth to temporarily relieve the pain.
Gollum, however, despite his wonderful hearing, was too far up to listen. Instead, he found his way to the very top. It was flat and only had enough room upon which to balance one lowly hobbit. He did so, perfectly resting on all fours, clinging on for dear life. He knew that one push or misstep would send him rolling down the rocks. The other side was craggy, with sharp rocks that reminded him faintly of the Emyn Muil. An even more distant memory filtered through from his youth. There was a small cliff, with big rocks near his home. Sometimes he would crawl on them, dig them up. He would have so much fun with something so simple...
"Fool," his Gollum side mused. "Doesn't matter now. Passst. Nasssty past. Forget it." And so he did, and with a heavy sigh, his gaze turned upward just as some heavy wind blew his few strands of hair before his face again. The dark brown of the hair whipped against his face, making him flinch. He tried toremember when he used to have curly long hair. Everyone had said that it was like his mother's. But the memory was lost to the wind, just as his life had been.
A caterpillar was crawling its way slowly up a rock below him; he bent forward a bit to watch as the green larva made its way steadily towards him. He had always had an interest in anything of the natural world, not tomention whatever appeared unusual or out of the ordinary. Ever since his youth, though it had dulled since then. With a heavy sigh, he looked up again.
"Hey!" Sam called from below, furious that he had ignored Frodo's small injury. "What's wrong with you!"
Sméagol spun around, careful to not slip, and almost did. Sam had helped Frodo to a smaller ledge right below the one where their guide sat. Of course, he wasn't hurt much. But the fatter companion didn't take chances.
"Sam, stop it, please!" Frodo pleaded. "I am growing sick of all this! He has done nothing!"
But something snapped within Gamgee's mind. Something deep, something primal. "You know what I'm sick of, Mr. Frodo? You always stickin' up for 'im!" And pointed a finger at the emaciated form above him.
The Ring-bearer's eyes widened, and his heart began to race. He'd never seen his gardener like this before. Had he gone mad?
"I just don't want any..." he began.
"Don't want any what! Look at 'im! He's disgusting! He's..." and as he spoke he walked higher and began to impose himself on the creature, "...sickening! He's crazy! Why can't you see that!"
"Sam, what is wrong with you!" Frodo screamed at his companion, standing up.
All the while, Sméagol's mind whirred. Hate and anger began to brew back up, but mostly, he was both sick and frightened. The scary Sam-hobbit was getting closer, with looks of incredible, horrible intent on his face.
Had to get away, had to.
Sam suddenly looked, and saw that Gollum was trying to escape. No, not this time. He reached out and grabbed one of Gollum's long, muscular yet lithe arms, attempting to pull him forward.
But the result was more of a push, and it came at exactly the wrong time.
Sméagol was trying to move downwards and catch a good grip with his foot, but never did.
Instead, the two other hobbits watched helplessly as their companion went wheeling over the edge. Sam's grip was loose, and Gollum's hand slipped easily through it. Looks of horror and surprise flashed across both their features as the frail form of Sméagol rolled down the side of the small tower. And it wasn't straight down, either. His body bounced from rock to rock as it fell, gravity claiming a new victim.
Frodo watched, his heart leaping to his throat, his mind fuzzy and sickened.
Gollum rolled along sharp stones and tore his thin skin. One on the head, torso, and all over the legs and arms. Then, he fell. Several feet, at least five, which seemed a lot more to a hobbit, and onto hard rock. One could distinctly hear the sound of flesh and bone hitting the slick surface of wet stone. Gollum disappeared from view.
And all was silent, save the ever-present sound of fell winds.
"Sam... what have you done?" Frodo asked his friend in a whisper. But he regretted saying the words the minute they left his mouth. Because he knew it was his own fault. He had watched, again, as another friend plummeted to his doom. And just as before, he had done nothing.
"I... I..." The hobbit next to him stammered, lips trembling, eyes wider then saucers. His hands shook as he attempted to steady himself on the rock, stomach turning, and nausea become to overcome his small body.
To Frodo, Sméagol was gone. He lay dead on the rocks below. Looking down, he watched as blood collected on the sharp ledges. There was a lot of it... too much, in fact. Too much for someone who could possibly be alive.
Bile began to rise in his throat, and did his best to keep it down. Putting his hand to his mouth, he made sure nothing would escape. Suddenly, a sound came on the wind. It was low and almost nonexistent, but it was there.
Gollum was alive, and crying softly at the bottom of the cliff.
"Sméagol!" Frodo cried as a wave of incredible relief washed over him. And before Sam could stop him, he began to climb swiftly down. "Sméagol are you all right, Sméagol?" He reached the cliff and peered down. Sam swiftly followed suit, falling to his hands and knees to look.
"By Eru... I..." he tried to say, but stuttered in amazement.
Gollum lay there on the stone, an even more broken hobbit then he had been before. Sprawled out completely on his back, his right hand rested on the hollow form of his chest. The left leg was bent at the knee. His loincloth had been torn from his body; it now lay on one of the pointed rocks above. Those striking blue eyes of his were closed.
The rest was horror. His right leg was a compound fracture, both the lower leg bones broken cleanly and poking through the skin. Muscle was visible around the white of the bone. Blood was smeared all around his calf, smudged by his own movements. The other leg remained badly bruised. His left arm was also clearly broken, though it remained under the skin. It was, however, bent at an incredibly odd angle. The wrist was sprained.
The other arm was gored and butchered by the rocks, dark wounds and bruises covering every inch. His skin no longer looked pale, but black with bruised skin and red with smeared blood. And his chest was severely scratched; no doubt his back was no better.
His head was, thankfully, not smashed. But it was torn up badly; blood oozed from the opening of a wound that had appeared above his right eye, flowing across his closed eyes. And if that wasn't enough, his genitals looked to be mangled as well, being lined with cuts and scratches.
Blood, blood was everywhere. He lay in a small puddle of it, and it was growing by the minute. It dripped steadily off the rock he was on, and formed small pools of their own.
But one thing spoke the most, and that was the steady and fast rhythm of his breathing. A small and short squeak would emit from him as a sign of his withheld pain. He was clearly unconscious.
Frodo breathed both in a sigh of relief and a cry of despair. He swallowed hard, then climbed down to join his injured friend. Approaching slowly, he tried his best not to fall to his knees in anguish at the awful scene before him. He bent down beside Gollum and gently grabbed his uninjured hand, but it was still covered with already-drying blood. Flies had started to gather as the sun made the whole scene reek.
"Sméagol? Sméagol, can you hear me?" he asked in his calmest voice. No answer came; Gollum's face was that of a complete blackout. Small streaks of blood were evident on his busted lip, his jaw lined with bruises. He had a black left eye. Just then, Sam made his way down to join them. And now as he looked upon the injured figure before him, all the hate that brewed within him seemed to disappear. He raised his hand to his mouth in horror.
"Mr. Frodo... I... I didn't mean to." Sam almost fell into sobs right there.
His mind swarmed with thoughts from the past. He had wanted to kill the wretch... wanted it more than anything at times. Why, then, when it actually happened, was he so stricken?
Frodo nodded to his friend, a look of bewilderment and sadness etched across his face. He then returned his gaze to their guide. "He's not dead, Sam. But he's hurt bad. He's lost a lot of blood." His vision trailed over the poor creature's body. He once again turned to his petrified companion.
"We must help him," Frodo said, and he slung off his backpack. Sam was about to criticize his decision. Then he realized he had no real right to; he had caused this, he was responsible for Gollum. Regardless of what Sam 'thought', Gollum had done nothing since that first night in the Emyn Muil.
In fact, he hadn't done anything but help. And now he needed theirs, but
Sam wasn't so sure he wanted to give it to him. To Frodo, however, there was no other option. In Lórien, he had received several new items that would help him in his quest, some of which were for healing. He pulled out several canvas-colored cloths that were made by elven hands. They felt silky to the touch, and smelled of crushed herbs.
The hobbits knew little about healing, but it was obvious what to do: stop the bleeding. Frodo took one of the cloths and tied it around Sméagol's forehead, covering the nasty gash, cinching it tight. Another cloth was stretched wide, then placed over his waist and chest. The open wounds on the arms and legs received similar treatment.
Sam assisted in the process, all the while his mind turning over and over. What seemed so striking to him was the blood. It was red, quickly turning brown as it dried. He, oddly, hadn't been expecting that. Samwise thought only black, choking blood pumped through those horrid veins, or maybe none at all. But no, it was red. Like a man, elf, dwarf.
Or a hobbit, just like him.