A young lad crouched low studying the earth beneath him. First he studied
his toes and the neat crop of hair on his feet. He dusted off the dirt and
wriggled his toes. A smile spread across his face. At his feet stood an
small mound of sand and dust. Busy little ants scurried in and out of the
mound with bits of food and leaves. The lad studied them closely. He bent
forward and peered into the anthill. All he could see was darkness;
darkness that intrigued him. He wanted to delve deeper. He stuck out his
finger and dug it into the hole. The ants scurried about madly some
creeping up his hand and bitting him. He let out a yelp and waved about his
hand sending the little insects flying in all directions. He frowned back
down at the ant mound again. The ones that were left already began to
rebuild it. Quick and persistant little workers they were. The lad watched
for a good long time trying to make his own little hole.
He grabbed a twig and started diligently digging. It was a small hole but very neat. He looked down at his work and praised it. A tiny hole filled with nothing but darkness. He liked it, the sun was much too bright. The nothing filled the hole like a smooth black liquid. The boy began making up a poem in his mind. *And empty holes it fills* was one verse he would surely use. He was a strange boy, his mind twisting and cranking in all sorts of mazes of thoughts.
His ears pricked up. He heard someone calling. He stood quickly and turned around. He sheilded his eyes from the sun. There in the distance was a black figure. Recognizing it instantly he ran as fast as his feet could carry him.
"Sorry Grandmother," he said when he reached the one calling him.
"Happy Bithday, dear," she smiled at the lad. "What have you been doing on this fine day?"
He beamed, eager to tell his grandmother about his poem. "We were digging a hole, Grandmother. A nice one, filled to the top with darkness. We made up a poem about it."
"Dear it is your coming of age. You must stop this nonsense and start taking the responsibilities that come with every lad your age."
He frowned, "But Grandmother, I-"
"Can't you see it is a beautiful, sunny day? Why spend all your time looking down when you can look up?" The old woman turned her gaze to the vast, blue sky.
The boy looked up and sheilded his eyes, "The sun is so bright. Like a great ring of golden fire. Like an eye."
His grandmother smiled. "An eye in a blue face, saw an eye in a green face. 'That eye is like to this eye' said the first eye, 'But in a low place, not a high place.'"
The boy looked up at his grandmother puzzled, then he noticed that her foot was absently kicking a tiny daisy. It bobbed back and forth as if it were on a spring. "Sun on daisies?"
"Yes, my dear, you are good at riddles."
"We like 'em." He answered satisfied with finding common ground with his grandmother.
After a moment of silence his grandmother was content with him, "Go along now. And don't get into mischeif."
The lad took his leave tired of always looking up at the trees, or the hill- tops, or the flowers opening in the air. His head and his eyes were downward.
His people were a clever-handed and quiet-footed little people. They lived in the little holes in the hills by the banks of the Great River. A small folk that loved the River and often swam in it and made little boats of reeds. The lad ran along the edge of the Wilderland seeking his hand at curious deeds. He burrowed under trees and was delighted to bask in the coolness of the dark. He was fascinated by roots and beginnings. He amuzed himself most of that morning with twisty riddles about darkness and shadow.
When he was sitting in the quiet solitude of his burrow, cradled in the roots of a great tree, there came a distubance. He hissed at the noise. "What does it want from us?"
"Smeagol! Smeagol! I know you're in there!"
Smeagol jumped up and scrambled out of his little crevice. "What is it, Deagol, my love?"
"I knew you were in there. I've brought you a birthday present. It is your coming of age. So I thought I'd get you something very special."
Smeagol's eyes widened "Presents! Can we see it?" He held out his hands.
Deagol laughed, "Close your eyes."
Smeagol obeyed. He felt something heavy in his hand. When he opened his eyes again it revealed an ancient looking book. He observed it curiously not sure how to react.
"It is a book of old lore. I thought you'd like it, seeing is how you're so interested in beginnings and such."
Smeagol smiled broadly. "Wonderful!" he said, and he meant it, knowing Deagol must have spent all he could afford and more for such a rare item. A book of old lore would be cherished indeed. Smeagol looked up at his friend with wide eyes. It was the most thoughtful gift anyone had given him. He knew it must have taken Deagol all of his money and effort to get such cherished, precious book. Old lore was hard to come by in this land. The little people did not want much to do with the outside world. Smeagol thumbed through the pages. There was history and tales of the ancient world. There were many different languages, strange and foreign. Such histories must have been delved into and recorded by none other than elves. Smeagol's eyes glittered. Deagol beamed, it was just the reaction he had hoped for, if not delayed a bit.
"Perhaps we could read it together. I'm not sure about some of those other languages but I knew you would know 'em."
Smeagol was speechless then he cleared his throat, "We- I don't deserve this."
"But of course you do." Deagol put an arm around his friend's shoulders, "Tis not every day you come of age, dear friend. I wanted to do something special."
"It's-" Smeagol studied the pages once more, "Precious. Oh so precious! It's my most cherished gift. Thank you Deagol!" Smeagol wrapped his arms around his friend tight. Never had anyone in all of the village liked Smeagol all that much. Many thought him odd for his interest in dark things. Deagol was the only one that ever cared about him. Even his grandmother disliked his oddities. Deagol understood.
Smeagol and Deagol were indeed very close friends. Smeagol, being the most curious-minded of any of his folk, showed Deagol his holes and burrows proudly. Deagol faned interest as not to offend his friend. Smeagol explained the fundamentals to making a decent hole; how to slant it properly to keep the most sun out, how to make the walls and ceiling sturdy so that it wouldn't cave. He showed Deagol the way he worked around the roots so that they would provide supports to his small hole. The roots in his hide out twisted and tangled together in knots curving up and around making some sort of fissure, like a comfortably woven hammock. Smeagol was very proud of his creations.
Deagol humored him since it was his birthday. But as the day went on Deagol became increasingly worried about Smeagol. He thought, perhaps, he was dwelling on the subject of burrowing and darkness all too much. Subtly he suggested to take a boat and go up to Gladden Fields. Smeagol quickly agreed being fond of deep pools.
The two had constructed a boat of reeds when they were young and ever since improved upon it. When Smeagol looked upon it he was reminded of many a happy summers day when the both toiled over their work. They spent long days by the river bed completely engrossed in their task. Talking about how many fish they could catch or how far they would sail. Aspiring to always go on the boat together and never alone. By now it was a fine sailing vessel, perfectly fit for two to laze about comfortably and fish, which was all of Deagol's intentions for that fine day.
The sun was high around noon when the two reached the banks of the River. Deagol hopped down below the shelf over the shallow end of the River and when digging amongst the reeds. The water was cool and crisp lapping up to his thighs. He tread the water for a while pushing aside the forest of reeds to reveal their little boat. It was a fine vessel worthy of sailing the calm waters of the River. Deagol slowly pushed it to shore and hopped, splashing about a moment. Once the boat settle and Smeagol thought it safe he hopped in as well. The boat swayed a moment and then was still. Both could sit comfortably in the small boat and once settled began paddling down the River. It was a calm and lazy day, perfect for a short boat ride to Gladden Fields. Once the current picked up the two nestled down and let it carry them gently to their destination. The boat rocked and swayed in a calming motion. The two began to drowse in the heat of the sun and the monotonous lapping of the water.
Deagol's lids grew heavy and as he was about to close them, giving in to the heavy sleep, he saw the scenery of Gladden feilds splash over him. Golden-yellow leaves fluttered through the air blanketting the fields and water with their veil of yellow. Sleep fell off of Deagol's lids the second he saw the veil of leaf-rain that showered all about the feilds. He jumped up sending the boat in unsteady sways letting some of the crisp water lap over the sides. As it washed over Smeagol he woke with a start.
"Wake, Smeagol! We have arrived!" Deagol cried with excitement quiverring in his voice.
Smeagol gazed with wonder. They rarely visitted Gladden Fields and never this time of year. The current was slow as the river became wide and level. The wind stopped abruptly once they reached their destination and the shower of leaves halted. Things seemed calmer downstream and they decided it was the perfect place to fish. Deagol was content with Smeagol's wonder towards the leaves and treetops, for once he was not looking down. Pleased, Deagol settled down and set up his fishing rod.
But Smeagol's wonder with the world up high quickly diminished. He did not fish long before he became intrigued by the depth of the waters. Deagol sighed and laid back, setting his fishing rod comfortably in his lap. He gazed up at the clouds as they floated hurriedly across the wide, blue sky. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Smeagol peer over the edge of the boat.
"What are you doing?" he questioned his gaze still fixed on the sky.
Smeagol turned to his friend, "We want to go for a swim."
Deagol sighed, "Why do you refer to yourself as two people?" he questioned, trying to get Smeagol's mind off of delving deep into the world.
Smeagol shrugged half heartedly at the question which was his common answer. This was not the first time Deagol asked and he knew that the answer would stay consistant. "There is more to me than just me."
Deagol's gaze fell on his friend, "Oh? Well I'm me. See, one me." He pointed to himself as if counting.
Smeagol frowned, "I have one body. But perhaps there is something special about us." He stuck out his tongue and pointed two fingers at himself.
"You see things very differently don't you, my dear?" Deagol smiled at his friend.
Smeagol could not help but return the smile. Anyone else would have just said he was crazy or strange. "That we do, my love." With that Smeagol dove into the waters. At first they were icy and numbed his skin. But he preferred the coolness to the hot gaze of the sun. An eye in a blue face. An eye of fire. Something Smeagol had grown to detest.
He swam to the bank of the River where he began his search for pretty and rare stones or shells perhaps. Such luck was always rare to find a pretty shell. He crawled about in the mud scraping his hands along its smooth, silky surface. When he dug a hole in the mud it would always quickly fill with more slippery mud or filthy water. He did not give up on his search quickly. Seeing that there was very little to be found that far from the water he came to the shallow end and began to search through pebbles and tiny reeds. This amuzed him for a good long time. There were all sorts of pebbles to go through, though none all that pretty and rare.
Deagol who decided to stay in the boat watched his friend intently. His back hunched his hands filthy with mud. He looked like some wretched creature seeking food among the filth and bottom feeding insects. Deagol cringed at the thought. He saw Smeagol was very intent with his searching, very dedicated to his interests. Perhaps he would find more pretty stones, he had found a good deal when they were young searching the banks of the River. But they weren't little any more, all grown, and Smeagol had come of age that very day. Still, he could not expect him to carry the weight of responsibility in that one day.
As he absently watched his friend dig through the mud and pepples he was not aware of the gentle tug on his fishing rod until it was nearly snatched from his grasp. He struggled against the beastly fish frantically as it pulled harder and harder ont the rod. He jerked this way and that as the boat swayed and spun in the water. Not wanting to lose such a prize, as it would obviously be a big fish to claim his own, Deagol held on with an iron grip. The boat tipped back and forward, Deagol's feet firmly planted. The water splashed violently as a huge fish leapt out of the water and dove back in again. Deagol's eyes widened at sight of the monstrous fish, being the biggest he'd ever seen. His grip tightened as he leaned back into the boat. It swayed again, dipping low and gulping up water. Deagol leaned back all the more putting his entire body weight on the pole. The boat took one more dip before Deagol pitched forward and dove into the water, rod still in hands.
The fish dragged him through the water, his grip still tight on the pole he tugged as best he could only causing his weightless body to spin and be dragged backwards. Soon enough his lungs began to crave air and, admitting defeat, he let go of the rod. He watched it as it soared, fish still attached, out of his sight. "I hope you choke on that hook in your mouth you beastly creature!" Deagol thought as he started to make his way to the surface.
But something caught his eye. It gleamed as the sun hit it. Immediately he thought it would be some precious stone Smeagol would love to see. He swam to it and dug his hand into the water to retrieve it. Half burried under sand and sediment was the object, glittering brightly, as if beckoning to him. Deagol wrapped his hand around it and all the thick mud and sediment about it.
When he came to the surface spluttering and coughing, weeds tangled in his curls, and a handful of mud, he swam to the bank. He sat in the mud and washed away his handful of sediment. As the mud washed away, slipping through his fingers, and the pebbles were cast quickly aside. And behold! In his hand lay a beautiful golden ring. It shone and glittered in the sunlight and Deagol's eyes shone greedily as he looked upon it. Some soft words whispered in his mind and his eyes devoured the golden trinket greedily. What luck! Such a beautiful object to find. It was so bright and beautiful he no longer cared about the fish.
As Deagol gloated over his prize, Smeagol watched behind a tree. Sneakily, Smeagol came softly up from behind. "Give us that, Deagol, my love," said Smeagol, over his friend's shoulder.
Deagol almost jumped at hearing his hissing voice right in his ear. "Why?" said Deagol, holding the ring protectively to him.
"Becaust it's my birthday, my love, and I wants it," said Smeagol.
"I don't care," Deagol growled, "I have given you a present already, more than I could aford. I found this, and I'm going to keep it."
"Oh, are you indeed, my love," said Smeagol, his eyes gleamed with fire. He too desired such a pretty object and his eyes devoured it greedily. It was his birthday, it should be his. Deagol should give it to him. Deagol held the ring close to him as he cowered under Smeagol's shadowy form. Smeagol's hands curved into tight claws, almost fists, and his body went rigid. Such a pretty thing, it should be his. Deagol wasn't being fair. He wasn't his friend.
Smeagol lunged at Deagol and wrapped his strong hold around Deagol's throat. Deagol barely had time enough to cry out. The grip tightened, vicious and merciless. Deagol's hand gripped around the golden ring, even as he was thrown into the mud with a terrible thud. Before he could scramble to his feet a form was over him gripping his neck once more and pressing him against the mud. It slid into his mouth, choking him all the more. As it filled a hole the mud and filthy waters wrapped around Deagol as he was pressed into the ground. The grip tightening like claws of some terrible beast with strength beyond one's reckoning. Deagol gasped and choked and weezed until no noise could escape his desperate lips. His eyes bulged as his face paled and his lips turned blue. There was a hissing in his ear and blackness clouded his vision. Still his hand wrapped desperately around the tiny trinket.
His body eased and lay deathly still. Smeagol's eye were wide and wild, a dark gleam behind them. He stood, staring down at the lifeless body of his only friend, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then his gaze fell on his friend's hand, still clenched in a tight fist around the little trinket. Smeagol leapt like a frog to his hand and pryed it open. Inside was gleaming the band of golden fire. He held it up, shining in his eyes, the ring gleamed. He slipped it on and saw it glitter and shine all the more, golden fire laced around it. He looked about, the world more shadowy and his friend's still body lay, a dark smeer on the edge of another world. Smeagol lifted his friend and cunningly hid the body under the small shelf the hill makes over the water. Smeagol clambored out of the hiding place and sheilded his eyes from the sun, now seeming more a flaming eye than ever before. He cursed it and downcast his face. The ring was heavier now but so smooth and cuning like a snake. The venomous words whispered in Smeagol's mind and he grinned maliciously down at his finger.
"Precious," he hissed, and made his way back to the boat.
~~~
It was a few weeks after Bilbo's departure and Gandalf's mysterious behavior toward Bilbo's old ring. He acted very strangely, Frodo recalled, his last words before his own hasty departure were 'Keep it secret. Keep it safe.' and with that he was gone. Frodo was completely bewildered by the whole process. But being one to heed the words of the wise, especially when it came to Gandalf, indeed kept it very secret and very safe. So much so that he had forgotten the hiding place himself. Such a careless act over such a- dare I say- precious- trinket would surely drive it's owner mad. And Frodo, indeed, was frantic with worry. So much so that he resorted to calling on his faithful servant Samwise for help. He was the only person Frodo could trust to utter any words about his trinket (not aware, of course, of his friend's little conspiracy with his cousins). They searched long into the night but to no avail. It had simply vanished.
Frodo sat down in his chair infront of a crackling fire. He felt himself shaking all over as he made to sit. His gaze, unfocussed, as he stared blankly beyond the fire into some other world. His pipe shook madly in his trembling hands as he made a clumsy attempt to fill it with Old Toby. Some of the leaf floated to the ground as his hands fumbled about the pipe, his gaze still blank and unfocussed.
Sam sighed as he made some last desperate attempts at finding his master's ring. He calmly went about the room, turning things over and checking in boxes. It had completely vanished. He turned back to his master, still sitting, staring at the fire, pipe messily stuffed and shaking violently in his hands. Sam shook his head, he was more worried about his master than Bilbo's silly old ring. He never really took to the wretched thing, though he had never really seen it. He saw its gold gleam peer over Bilbo's pocket and once just as Bilbo was holding it up. Then he vanished which made Sam blink repeatedly and rub his eyes. He went on looking, knowing finding it would be the only thing to calm Frodo's nerves. But it always gave him an unnerving feeling.
Sam stood from rummaging through a chest and looked out the window. The moon was slowly making its way to the setting horizon, though all was still covered in the black of night. Stars dotted the sky like tiny gems. Sam sighed, wondering how long they had been looking. He turned to Frodo again. "We can keep lookin' tomorrow, sir, if you be wantin'. But it's gettin' kinda late, and if you won't be mindin', sir-" Sam stopped seeing that he would get no reaction from his master.
"Mr. Frodo?"
Frodo puffed on his pipe, smoke wavering over him in unsteady clouds. His whole body was shaking. Sam bit his lip and walked over to his master. "It'll be alright, sir, we'll find it. It can't go far. Mr. Bilbo would never be angry with you if you lost it anyway. I'm sure he'd understand.."
Frodo nodded unsteadily, giving Sam his leave. But Sam wasn't so sure now. Frodo did not look well, and he couldn't leave him like that. "How about I stay the night, sir, if you won't be mindin'. You don't look too well, and I'd wanna be here incase you need some helpin'."
Frodo shook his head, still staring blankly into nothing. Sam looked around the room, lit only by the warmth of the fire, which was slowly dying. Sam stood and walked over to the desk overflowing with papers and books. Out of all of Frodo's most admirable qualities, neatness was never one of them. Sam sighed, shifting through the papers, hoping to catch sight of what he'd hope to find. He saw no golden ring. There was the red book which Sam had to fight himself not to read. It wasn't his place to read it. Mr. Frodo didn't say he could. Sam pushed it aside and began ordering the papers in neat piles. He shifted through letters until he came upon an unopened envelope, with the unbroken Baggins seal on it. Sam reached to set it atop the desk when something inside slid about. It felt heavy like a small glass marble was shifting inside. Sam immediately thought of the ring, but wasn't sure he should open the envelope. After a moment of doubt and casting another look upon his trembling master, Sam broke the seal. Into his palm slid a cool smooth ring. A bright gold band of fire. Sam's heart jumped, and he clasped his hand around it. After another moments hesitation Sam felt as if he couldn't move. He wanted to give it to his master, but something stopped him. He looked down on the harmless trinket as it lay cool and smooth in his palm. Something began to cloud his mind, but quickly he shook it away.
"Mr. Frodo!" he called as he ran up to his master. He held out the ring, proudly.
Frodo's gaze fell on it and quickly the distance fell from his eyes. Although he stopped shaking Sam felt all the more afraid of him. A shadow fell over him, a dark gleam in his eyes. Something stirred inside of him that made Sam fall to his knees and tremble. His hand still held out the ring but Frodo would not take it right away. Frodo's body stiffened, his whole frame went rigid. His hands tightened forming almost fists, clawlike. Sam felt his heart quail as he trembled under Frodo's terrible shadow. A cold fear gripped the room and the fire dimmed. A fire lit his eyes as he stared down at his ring in someone else's hands. Frodo's hands twitched a moment then he raised them and his body sagged. He passed a hand over his face as if pushing aside a veil of shadow. Before him cowered a very bewildered and frightened Samwise Gamgee. Frodo felt a weakness come over him as he held out a tremblind hand.
"Give it to me," he whispered, harsh and cold, his voice wracked with trembling. Sam closed his eyes and held out the ring farther as if waiting to be struck. Frodo's trembling hand gripped the ring and he shoved it in his pocket. "Go- you- you can go now Sam. Thank- thank you. I just- tired- thank you." Frodo stammered.
Sam opened his eyes and clambered to his feet. He stared at his master for a moment before he made his way to the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and slowly opened it. Silently as one could, he slipped out. He sighed, if that wasn't the most frightening thing he'd ever seen...
He turned and peered through the window. He saw Frodo collapse in his chair still shaking violently. He saw the fire flicker in its last dying embers. Sam shook his head and chopped a bit more firewood as silently as possible. He piled a nice neat pile infront of the door to Bag-End and made his way home as dawn approached.
Frodo sat for a moment trying to get a grip on things. He put his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with fear. "What have I done, Sam? I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know what happened." His hand strayed to his pocket where he felt the nice cool surface of the ring. After being sure of its safety in his pocket his mind strayed to Sam again. How he hurt him when he had stayed up that whole night searching for him. Frodo leapt to his feet and threw open the door. He saw Sam's slight form far down the road and at his feet was a neat pile of firewood. Tears streaked his face. "Oh Sam," he whispered.
~~~
"I couldn't, Sam. It wouldn't be fair of me to kill him. Now that I see him, I do pity him."
Sam sneered, "You have a good heart, Mr. Frodo. But how could anyone pity such a wretched creature?"
"Simple, Samwise," Frodo sighed, leaning back against the stone wall. His slight frame was much thinner than usual, as Sam assumed his own was. Dark circles framed Frodo's pale and dim lit eyes. Exhaustion heaved on all of his limbs, a great weight dragging him to the ground. He managed a pathetic shadow of a smile. "It is not his fault. He was a hobbit, just like us, Sam."
Sam cringed at the thought.
"It was the Ring that did this to him. Enticed him, poisoned his mind. Gripped his very soul and battled against his mind. It was the venomous call of the Ring dragging him to darkness where there was no hope of happiness or salvation. It destroyed his life, the ones he loved, turned him into the creature you see now."
Sam was silent. His detest for the creature did not lessen but he saw his master in a new light.
Frodo sighed, his weak and broken body sagged against the stone wall. Smoke choked out the sun, day and night bled into a perpetual dark shadow that choked the land of all light. It was slowly putting out the light inside Frodo as well. His eyes glimmered weakly. "I pity him. I understand him, Sam. I understand because the same call was upon Bilbo when we were in Rivendell. The Ring slowly twisting in his mind, poisoning him, freezing his very soul. It freezes, Sam. Freezes and burns at the same time."
Fear lit Sam's eyes as he saw his master slowly drift into a dark sleep. He looked pale, his body weak and limp. The light in his eyes flickered, a dark shadow was behind them. He saw it every time he looked into Frodo's eyes now, something was inside him, growing, nursing it's malice, changing him. But the wise forgiving creature before him was still Frodo, his dear master.
"I understand, Sam because-" Frodo paused to take in a rattling gasp of air. "Because the same call slipped into Boromir's mind. I forgive him, Sam. Because it was not he who attacked me. It was the Ring. Like a snake it lied, decievedc, hissed in his mind. He only wished to defend his people. It wasn't madness, Sam, it was the Ring."
"I under-" Frodo began to drift into sleep, his voice becoming weaker. "I understand because- because- it is in my mind. It speaks to me, whispers deceitful words in my mind. The voices- Sam- voices and darkness. It fills my mind and leaves me- empty- hallow. Sam-"
Sam was filled with fear. He watched his master drift into his sleep, wracked by dark, tormenting dreams. He cast a look towards the creature Gollum, laying in a half sleep a few feet away. He still did not trust the creature. He would betray them yet. What worried him most were Frodo's words. And he dwelled on them well into the night, or day, he could not tell any more. But he did not sleep.
Gollum lay on his side unable to sleep. What was left of his wretched mind was weeping. A small light was left in him and remembered times long passed, when he was happy, when he had a friend. He turned, wondering what it was like to cry again. A feeling he had long forgotten, how to truly sit and weep for his own intentions. He brushed a hand over his face wondering if the wetness sliding from his eyes down his cheeks were tears. "Deagol," he whispered.
He grabbed a twig and started diligently digging. It was a small hole but very neat. He looked down at his work and praised it. A tiny hole filled with nothing but darkness. He liked it, the sun was much too bright. The nothing filled the hole like a smooth black liquid. The boy began making up a poem in his mind. *And empty holes it fills* was one verse he would surely use. He was a strange boy, his mind twisting and cranking in all sorts of mazes of thoughts.
His ears pricked up. He heard someone calling. He stood quickly and turned around. He sheilded his eyes from the sun. There in the distance was a black figure. Recognizing it instantly he ran as fast as his feet could carry him.
"Sorry Grandmother," he said when he reached the one calling him.
"Happy Bithday, dear," she smiled at the lad. "What have you been doing on this fine day?"
He beamed, eager to tell his grandmother about his poem. "We were digging a hole, Grandmother. A nice one, filled to the top with darkness. We made up a poem about it."
"Dear it is your coming of age. You must stop this nonsense and start taking the responsibilities that come with every lad your age."
He frowned, "But Grandmother, I-"
"Can't you see it is a beautiful, sunny day? Why spend all your time looking down when you can look up?" The old woman turned her gaze to the vast, blue sky.
The boy looked up and sheilded his eyes, "The sun is so bright. Like a great ring of golden fire. Like an eye."
His grandmother smiled. "An eye in a blue face, saw an eye in a green face. 'That eye is like to this eye' said the first eye, 'But in a low place, not a high place.'"
The boy looked up at his grandmother puzzled, then he noticed that her foot was absently kicking a tiny daisy. It bobbed back and forth as if it were on a spring. "Sun on daisies?"
"Yes, my dear, you are good at riddles."
"We like 'em." He answered satisfied with finding common ground with his grandmother.
After a moment of silence his grandmother was content with him, "Go along now. And don't get into mischeif."
The lad took his leave tired of always looking up at the trees, or the hill- tops, or the flowers opening in the air. His head and his eyes were downward.
His people were a clever-handed and quiet-footed little people. They lived in the little holes in the hills by the banks of the Great River. A small folk that loved the River and often swam in it and made little boats of reeds. The lad ran along the edge of the Wilderland seeking his hand at curious deeds. He burrowed under trees and was delighted to bask in the coolness of the dark. He was fascinated by roots and beginnings. He amuzed himself most of that morning with twisty riddles about darkness and shadow.
When he was sitting in the quiet solitude of his burrow, cradled in the roots of a great tree, there came a distubance. He hissed at the noise. "What does it want from us?"
"Smeagol! Smeagol! I know you're in there!"
Smeagol jumped up and scrambled out of his little crevice. "What is it, Deagol, my love?"
"I knew you were in there. I've brought you a birthday present. It is your coming of age. So I thought I'd get you something very special."
Smeagol's eyes widened "Presents! Can we see it?" He held out his hands.
Deagol laughed, "Close your eyes."
Smeagol obeyed. He felt something heavy in his hand. When he opened his eyes again it revealed an ancient looking book. He observed it curiously not sure how to react.
"It is a book of old lore. I thought you'd like it, seeing is how you're so interested in beginnings and such."
Smeagol smiled broadly. "Wonderful!" he said, and he meant it, knowing Deagol must have spent all he could afford and more for such a rare item. A book of old lore would be cherished indeed. Smeagol looked up at his friend with wide eyes. It was the most thoughtful gift anyone had given him. He knew it must have taken Deagol all of his money and effort to get such cherished, precious book. Old lore was hard to come by in this land. The little people did not want much to do with the outside world. Smeagol thumbed through the pages. There was history and tales of the ancient world. There were many different languages, strange and foreign. Such histories must have been delved into and recorded by none other than elves. Smeagol's eyes glittered. Deagol beamed, it was just the reaction he had hoped for, if not delayed a bit.
"Perhaps we could read it together. I'm not sure about some of those other languages but I knew you would know 'em."
Smeagol was speechless then he cleared his throat, "We- I don't deserve this."
"But of course you do." Deagol put an arm around his friend's shoulders, "Tis not every day you come of age, dear friend. I wanted to do something special."
"It's-" Smeagol studied the pages once more, "Precious. Oh so precious! It's my most cherished gift. Thank you Deagol!" Smeagol wrapped his arms around his friend tight. Never had anyone in all of the village liked Smeagol all that much. Many thought him odd for his interest in dark things. Deagol was the only one that ever cared about him. Even his grandmother disliked his oddities. Deagol understood.
Smeagol and Deagol were indeed very close friends. Smeagol, being the most curious-minded of any of his folk, showed Deagol his holes and burrows proudly. Deagol faned interest as not to offend his friend. Smeagol explained the fundamentals to making a decent hole; how to slant it properly to keep the most sun out, how to make the walls and ceiling sturdy so that it wouldn't cave. He showed Deagol the way he worked around the roots so that they would provide supports to his small hole. The roots in his hide out twisted and tangled together in knots curving up and around making some sort of fissure, like a comfortably woven hammock. Smeagol was very proud of his creations.
Deagol humored him since it was his birthday. But as the day went on Deagol became increasingly worried about Smeagol. He thought, perhaps, he was dwelling on the subject of burrowing and darkness all too much. Subtly he suggested to take a boat and go up to Gladden Fields. Smeagol quickly agreed being fond of deep pools.
The two had constructed a boat of reeds when they were young and ever since improved upon it. When Smeagol looked upon it he was reminded of many a happy summers day when the both toiled over their work. They spent long days by the river bed completely engrossed in their task. Talking about how many fish they could catch or how far they would sail. Aspiring to always go on the boat together and never alone. By now it was a fine sailing vessel, perfectly fit for two to laze about comfortably and fish, which was all of Deagol's intentions for that fine day.
The sun was high around noon when the two reached the banks of the River. Deagol hopped down below the shelf over the shallow end of the River and when digging amongst the reeds. The water was cool and crisp lapping up to his thighs. He tread the water for a while pushing aside the forest of reeds to reveal their little boat. It was a fine vessel worthy of sailing the calm waters of the River. Deagol slowly pushed it to shore and hopped, splashing about a moment. Once the boat settle and Smeagol thought it safe he hopped in as well. The boat swayed a moment and then was still. Both could sit comfortably in the small boat and once settled began paddling down the River. It was a calm and lazy day, perfect for a short boat ride to Gladden Fields. Once the current picked up the two nestled down and let it carry them gently to their destination. The boat rocked and swayed in a calming motion. The two began to drowse in the heat of the sun and the monotonous lapping of the water.
Deagol's lids grew heavy and as he was about to close them, giving in to the heavy sleep, he saw the scenery of Gladden feilds splash over him. Golden-yellow leaves fluttered through the air blanketting the fields and water with their veil of yellow. Sleep fell off of Deagol's lids the second he saw the veil of leaf-rain that showered all about the feilds. He jumped up sending the boat in unsteady sways letting some of the crisp water lap over the sides. As it washed over Smeagol he woke with a start.
"Wake, Smeagol! We have arrived!" Deagol cried with excitement quiverring in his voice.
Smeagol gazed with wonder. They rarely visitted Gladden Fields and never this time of year. The current was slow as the river became wide and level. The wind stopped abruptly once they reached their destination and the shower of leaves halted. Things seemed calmer downstream and they decided it was the perfect place to fish. Deagol was content with Smeagol's wonder towards the leaves and treetops, for once he was not looking down. Pleased, Deagol settled down and set up his fishing rod.
But Smeagol's wonder with the world up high quickly diminished. He did not fish long before he became intrigued by the depth of the waters. Deagol sighed and laid back, setting his fishing rod comfortably in his lap. He gazed up at the clouds as they floated hurriedly across the wide, blue sky. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Smeagol peer over the edge of the boat.
"What are you doing?" he questioned his gaze still fixed on the sky.
Smeagol turned to his friend, "We want to go for a swim."
Deagol sighed, "Why do you refer to yourself as two people?" he questioned, trying to get Smeagol's mind off of delving deep into the world.
Smeagol shrugged half heartedly at the question which was his common answer. This was not the first time Deagol asked and he knew that the answer would stay consistant. "There is more to me than just me."
Deagol's gaze fell on his friend, "Oh? Well I'm me. See, one me." He pointed to himself as if counting.
Smeagol frowned, "I have one body. But perhaps there is something special about us." He stuck out his tongue and pointed two fingers at himself.
"You see things very differently don't you, my dear?" Deagol smiled at his friend.
Smeagol could not help but return the smile. Anyone else would have just said he was crazy or strange. "That we do, my love." With that Smeagol dove into the waters. At first they were icy and numbed his skin. But he preferred the coolness to the hot gaze of the sun. An eye in a blue face. An eye of fire. Something Smeagol had grown to detest.
He swam to the bank of the River where he began his search for pretty and rare stones or shells perhaps. Such luck was always rare to find a pretty shell. He crawled about in the mud scraping his hands along its smooth, silky surface. When he dug a hole in the mud it would always quickly fill with more slippery mud or filthy water. He did not give up on his search quickly. Seeing that there was very little to be found that far from the water he came to the shallow end and began to search through pebbles and tiny reeds. This amuzed him for a good long time. There were all sorts of pebbles to go through, though none all that pretty and rare.
Deagol who decided to stay in the boat watched his friend intently. His back hunched his hands filthy with mud. He looked like some wretched creature seeking food among the filth and bottom feeding insects. Deagol cringed at the thought. He saw Smeagol was very intent with his searching, very dedicated to his interests. Perhaps he would find more pretty stones, he had found a good deal when they were young searching the banks of the River. But they weren't little any more, all grown, and Smeagol had come of age that very day. Still, he could not expect him to carry the weight of responsibility in that one day.
As he absently watched his friend dig through the mud and pepples he was not aware of the gentle tug on his fishing rod until it was nearly snatched from his grasp. He struggled against the beastly fish frantically as it pulled harder and harder ont the rod. He jerked this way and that as the boat swayed and spun in the water. Not wanting to lose such a prize, as it would obviously be a big fish to claim his own, Deagol held on with an iron grip. The boat tipped back and forward, Deagol's feet firmly planted. The water splashed violently as a huge fish leapt out of the water and dove back in again. Deagol's eyes widened at sight of the monstrous fish, being the biggest he'd ever seen. His grip tightened as he leaned back into the boat. It swayed again, dipping low and gulping up water. Deagol leaned back all the more putting his entire body weight on the pole. The boat took one more dip before Deagol pitched forward and dove into the water, rod still in hands.
The fish dragged him through the water, his grip still tight on the pole he tugged as best he could only causing his weightless body to spin and be dragged backwards. Soon enough his lungs began to crave air and, admitting defeat, he let go of the rod. He watched it as it soared, fish still attached, out of his sight. "I hope you choke on that hook in your mouth you beastly creature!" Deagol thought as he started to make his way to the surface.
But something caught his eye. It gleamed as the sun hit it. Immediately he thought it would be some precious stone Smeagol would love to see. He swam to it and dug his hand into the water to retrieve it. Half burried under sand and sediment was the object, glittering brightly, as if beckoning to him. Deagol wrapped his hand around it and all the thick mud and sediment about it.
When he came to the surface spluttering and coughing, weeds tangled in his curls, and a handful of mud, he swam to the bank. He sat in the mud and washed away his handful of sediment. As the mud washed away, slipping through his fingers, and the pebbles were cast quickly aside. And behold! In his hand lay a beautiful golden ring. It shone and glittered in the sunlight and Deagol's eyes shone greedily as he looked upon it. Some soft words whispered in his mind and his eyes devoured the golden trinket greedily. What luck! Such a beautiful object to find. It was so bright and beautiful he no longer cared about the fish.
As Deagol gloated over his prize, Smeagol watched behind a tree. Sneakily, Smeagol came softly up from behind. "Give us that, Deagol, my love," said Smeagol, over his friend's shoulder.
Deagol almost jumped at hearing his hissing voice right in his ear. "Why?" said Deagol, holding the ring protectively to him.
"Becaust it's my birthday, my love, and I wants it," said Smeagol.
"I don't care," Deagol growled, "I have given you a present already, more than I could aford. I found this, and I'm going to keep it."
"Oh, are you indeed, my love," said Smeagol, his eyes gleamed with fire. He too desired such a pretty object and his eyes devoured it greedily. It was his birthday, it should be his. Deagol should give it to him. Deagol held the ring close to him as he cowered under Smeagol's shadowy form. Smeagol's hands curved into tight claws, almost fists, and his body went rigid. Such a pretty thing, it should be his. Deagol wasn't being fair. He wasn't his friend.
Smeagol lunged at Deagol and wrapped his strong hold around Deagol's throat. Deagol barely had time enough to cry out. The grip tightened, vicious and merciless. Deagol's hand gripped around the golden ring, even as he was thrown into the mud with a terrible thud. Before he could scramble to his feet a form was over him gripping his neck once more and pressing him against the mud. It slid into his mouth, choking him all the more. As it filled a hole the mud and filthy waters wrapped around Deagol as he was pressed into the ground. The grip tightening like claws of some terrible beast with strength beyond one's reckoning. Deagol gasped and choked and weezed until no noise could escape his desperate lips. His eyes bulged as his face paled and his lips turned blue. There was a hissing in his ear and blackness clouded his vision. Still his hand wrapped desperately around the tiny trinket.
His body eased and lay deathly still. Smeagol's eye were wide and wild, a dark gleam behind them. He stood, staring down at the lifeless body of his only friend, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then his gaze fell on his friend's hand, still clenched in a tight fist around the little trinket. Smeagol leapt like a frog to his hand and pryed it open. Inside was gleaming the band of golden fire. He held it up, shining in his eyes, the ring gleamed. He slipped it on and saw it glitter and shine all the more, golden fire laced around it. He looked about, the world more shadowy and his friend's still body lay, a dark smeer on the edge of another world. Smeagol lifted his friend and cunningly hid the body under the small shelf the hill makes over the water. Smeagol clambored out of the hiding place and sheilded his eyes from the sun, now seeming more a flaming eye than ever before. He cursed it and downcast his face. The ring was heavier now but so smooth and cuning like a snake. The venomous words whispered in Smeagol's mind and he grinned maliciously down at his finger.
"Precious," he hissed, and made his way back to the boat.
~~~
It was a few weeks after Bilbo's departure and Gandalf's mysterious behavior toward Bilbo's old ring. He acted very strangely, Frodo recalled, his last words before his own hasty departure were 'Keep it secret. Keep it safe.' and with that he was gone. Frodo was completely bewildered by the whole process. But being one to heed the words of the wise, especially when it came to Gandalf, indeed kept it very secret and very safe. So much so that he had forgotten the hiding place himself. Such a careless act over such a- dare I say- precious- trinket would surely drive it's owner mad. And Frodo, indeed, was frantic with worry. So much so that he resorted to calling on his faithful servant Samwise for help. He was the only person Frodo could trust to utter any words about his trinket (not aware, of course, of his friend's little conspiracy with his cousins). They searched long into the night but to no avail. It had simply vanished.
Frodo sat down in his chair infront of a crackling fire. He felt himself shaking all over as he made to sit. His gaze, unfocussed, as he stared blankly beyond the fire into some other world. His pipe shook madly in his trembling hands as he made a clumsy attempt to fill it with Old Toby. Some of the leaf floated to the ground as his hands fumbled about the pipe, his gaze still blank and unfocussed.
Sam sighed as he made some last desperate attempts at finding his master's ring. He calmly went about the room, turning things over and checking in boxes. It had completely vanished. He turned back to his master, still sitting, staring at the fire, pipe messily stuffed and shaking violently in his hands. Sam shook his head, he was more worried about his master than Bilbo's silly old ring. He never really took to the wretched thing, though he had never really seen it. He saw its gold gleam peer over Bilbo's pocket and once just as Bilbo was holding it up. Then he vanished which made Sam blink repeatedly and rub his eyes. He went on looking, knowing finding it would be the only thing to calm Frodo's nerves. But it always gave him an unnerving feeling.
Sam stood from rummaging through a chest and looked out the window. The moon was slowly making its way to the setting horizon, though all was still covered in the black of night. Stars dotted the sky like tiny gems. Sam sighed, wondering how long they had been looking. He turned to Frodo again. "We can keep lookin' tomorrow, sir, if you be wantin'. But it's gettin' kinda late, and if you won't be mindin', sir-" Sam stopped seeing that he would get no reaction from his master.
"Mr. Frodo?"
Frodo puffed on his pipe, smoke wavering over him in unsteady clouds. His whole body was shaking. Sam bit his lip and walked over to his master. "It'll be alright, sir, we'll find it. It can't go far. Mr. Bilbo would never be angry with you if you lost it anyway. I'm sure he'd understand.."
Frodo nodded unsteadily, giving Sam his leave. But Sam wasn't so sure now. Frodo did not look well, and he couldn't leave him like that. "How about I stay the night, sir, if you won't be mindin'. You don't look too well, and I'd wanna be here incase you need some helpin'."
Frodo shook his head, still staring blankly into nothing. Sam looked around the room, lit only by the warmth of the fire, which was slowly dying. Sam stood and walked over to the desk overflowing with papers and books. Out of all of Frodo's most admirable qualities, neatness was never one of them. Sam sighed, shifting through the papers, hoping to catch sight of what he'd hope to find. He saw no golden ring. There was the red book which Sam had to fight himself not to read. It wasn't his place to read it. Mr. Frodo didn't say he could. Sam pushed it aside and began ordering the papers in neat piles. He shifted through letters until he came upon an unopened envelope, with the unbroken Baggins seal on it. Sam reached to set it atop the desk when something inside slid about. It felt heavy like a small glass marble was shifting inside. Sam immediately thought of the ring, but wasn't sure he should open the envelope. After a moment of doubt and casting another look upon his trembling master, Sam broke the seal. Into his palm slid a cool smooth ring. A bright gold band of fire. Sam's heart jumped, and he clasped his hand around it. After another moments hesitation Sam felt as if he couldn't move. He wanted to give it to his master, but something stopped him. He looked down on the harmless trinket as it lay cool and smooth in his palm. Something began to cloud his mind, but quickly he shook it away.
"Mr. Frodo!" he called as he ran up to his master. He held out the ring, proudly.
Frodo's gaze fell on it and quickly the distance fell from his eyes. Although he stopped shaking Sam felt all the more afraid of him. A shadow fell over him, a dark gleam in his eyes. Something stirred inside of him that made Sam fall to his knees and tremble. His hand still held out the ring but Frodo would not take it right away. Frodo's body stiffened, his whole frame went rigid. His hands tightened forming almost fists, clawlike. Sam felt his heart quail as he trembled under Frodo's terrible shadow. A cold fear gripped the room and the fire dimmed. A fire lit his eyes as he stared down at his ring in someone else's hands. Frodo's hands twitched a moment then he raised them and his body sagged. He passed a hand over his face as if pushing aside a veil of shadow. Before him cowered a very bewildered and frightened Samwise Gamgee. Frodo felt a weakness come over him as he held out a tremblind hand.
"Give it to me," he whispered, harsh and cold, his voice wracked with trembling. Sam closed his eyes and held out the ring farther as if waiting to be struck. Frodo's trembling hand gripped the ring and he shoved it in his pocket. "Go- you- you can go now Sam. Thank- thank you. I just- tired- thank you." Frodo stammered.
Sam opened his eyes and clambered to his feet. He stared at his master for a moment before he made his way to the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and slowly opened it. Silently as one could, he slipped out. He sighed, if that wasn't the most frightening thing he'd ever seen...
He turned and peered through the window. He saw Frodo collapse in his chair still shaking violently. He saw the fire flicker in its last dying embers. Sam shook his head and chopped a bit more firewood as silently as possible. He piled a nice neat pile infront of the door to Bag-End and made his way home as dawn approached.
Frodo sat for a moment trying to get a grip on things. He put his hand over his mouth, his eyes wide with fear. "What have I done, Sam? I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know what happened." His hand strayed to his pocket where he felt the nice cool surface of the ring. After being sure of its safety in his pocket his mind strayed to Sam again. How he hurt him when he had stayed up that whole night searching for him. Frodo leapt to his feet and threw open the door. He saw Sam's slight form far down the road and at his feet was a neat pile of firewood. Tears streaked his face. "Oh Sam," he whispered.
~~~
"I couldn't, Sam. It wouldn't be fair of me to kill him. Now that I see him, I do pity him."
Sam sneered, "You have a good heart, Mr. Frodo. But how could anyone pity such a wretched creature?"
"Simple, Samwise," Frodo sighed, leaning back against the stone wall. His slight frame was much thinner than usual, as Sam assumed his own was. Dark circles framed Frodo's pale and dim lit eyes. Exhaustion heaved on all of his limbs, a great weight dragging him to the ground. He managed a pathetic shadow of a smile. "It is not his fault. He was a hobbit, just like us, Sam."
Sam cringed at the thought.
"It was the Ring that did this to him. Enticed him, poisoned his mind. Gripped his very soul and battled against his mind. It was the venomous call of the Ring dragging him to darkness where there was no hope of happiness or salvation. It destroyed his life, the ones he loved, turned him into the creature you see now."
Sam was silent. His detest for the creature did not lessen but he saw his master in a new light.
Frodo sighed, his weak and broken body sagged against the stone wall. Smoke choked out the sun, day and night bled into a perpetual dark shadow that choked the land of all light. It was slowly putting out the light inside Frodo as well. His eyes glimmered weakly. "I pity him. I understand him, Sam. I understand because the same call was upon Bilbo when we were in Rivendell. The Ring slowly twisting in his mind, poisoning him, freezing his very soul. It freezes, Sam. Freezes and burns at the same time."
Fear lit Sam's eyes as he saw his master slowly drift into a dark sleep. He looked pale, his body weak and limp. The light in his eyes flickered, a dark shadow was behind them. He saw it every time he looked into Frodo's eyes now, something was inside him, growing, nursing it's malice, changing him. But the wise forgiving creature before him was still Frodo, his dear master.
"I understand, Sam because-" Frodo paused to take in a rattling gasp of air. "Because the same call slipped into Boromir's mind. I forgive him, Sam. Because it was not he who attacked me. It was the Ring. Like a snake it lied, decievedc, hissed in his mind. He only wished to defend his people. It wasn't madness, Sam, it was the Ring."
"I under-" Frodo began to drift into sleep, his voice becoming weaker. "I understand because- because- it is in my mind. It speaks to me, whispers deceitful words in my mind. The voices- Sam- voices and darkness. It fills my mind and leaves me- empty- hallow. Sam-"
Sam was filled with fear. He watched his master drift into his sleep, wracked by dark, tormenting dreams. He cast a look towards the creature Gollum, laying in a half sleep a few feet away. He still did not trust the creature. He would betray them yet. What worried him most were Frodo's words. And he dwelled on them well into the night, or day, he could not tell any more. But he did not sleep.
Gollum lay on his side unable to sleep. What was left of his wretched mind was weeping. A small light was left in him and remembered times long passed, when he was happy, when he had a friend. He turned, wondering what it was like to cry again. A feeling he had long forgotten, how to truly sit and weep for his own intentions. He brushed a hand over his face wondering if the wetness sliding from his eyes down his cheeks were tears. "Deagol," he whispered.