Chapter One- A Familiar Face
Blazing heat; his flesh burning, peeling, melting away along with the infernal trinket that claimed his life for a good five centuries. It was the only thing Sméagol could remember before losing consciousness. Though now the pain had ceased, and he found himself no longer falling. Instead he lay with his back against the ground, both eyes closed and a hand resting upon his stomach.
Within a matter of time he had awoken from unconsciousness and savored the tender warmth of the morning sun on his face. It wasn't scorching, but relaxing, rather. However, Sméagol wasn't quick to decipher where he was. Judging from the tranquility, it felt nothing at all like the dark surroundings of Mordor. In fact, everything seemed quite familiar, and… pleasant. Sméagol believed that even he himself felt a tad different, and more out of the norm than his usual self.
Birds and crickets chirped nearby, while the gentle murmuring of water was audible as well- but Sméagol refused to open his eyes. He wanted to stay put; to lay beneath the warm sun, upon soft terrain, without a care in the world. For once he felt his mind had finally been freed from the One Ring, and the torment it had brought him century after century. Replacing Gollum's wretched hisses were nothing but Sméagol's own carefree thoughts. Though, after a moment of resting beneath the sun's golden rays he figured a walk would do him well. After all, began to question where Master Frodo and his friend had gone.
Flicking his eyes open, Sméagol still as he studied his surroundings. Why does this place seem so familiar? He asked himself, furrowing his brows as he hoisted up from the ground with a grunt; oddly enough, the loincloth around his waist seemed to fit somewhat tighter than usual. As he started toward the sound of the water it took Sméagol a mere second to realize that he wasn't crawling on all four limbs. Instead, he found himself walking on two legs, the way any other normal being would. He also felt... taller than usual.
Still puzzled, Sméagol continued on his stroll. Yet when he had reached the nearest river and leaned over for a drink of water, he was in shock. What gazed back at him from the water's surface weren't the prying, green eyes of an emaciated creature, no. Instead, they were the softened blue ones of a gentle-faced being.
Pulling away from the water with a gasp Sméagol lifted both hands before him, staring down at his palms in awe. They no longer appeared to be pale and bony, but smooth and fair.
"How?" He whispered to himself, leaning forward in curiosity to study his reflection once again. As he did so, he raised his brows at the sight of the full head of copper curls he appeared to have.
Furrowing his brows, Sméagol lifted a hand to his head. He combed his fingers through the mane he had lost for the ring nearly five-hundred years ago, and it felt damn good to do so once again.
Just as Sméagol began to contemplate how odd this all was, someone tackled him to the ground without warning.
"No!" He cried. "Don't hurt me! Please, don't hurt me..." In an instant, his pleas were drowned out by the sound of laughter.
"I'm not going to hurt you, you bairn!" Sméagol's attacker cackled.
That voice... He thought. That laugh... It belonged to neither Frodo, nor Sam, and sounded much too jubilant to belong to anyone else Sméagol had encountered.
Reluctant to do so, he peered back over his shoulder only to stare into two emerald green eyes belonging to a rather stocky being with a sable mop of hair.
"Déagol..." He breathed, almost speechless as his heart skipped a beat.