Sméagol travelled wearily down the trail, defeated and lost. He had failed to get his hands on the Precious. First had been that awful light, that had shattered the darkness of terror in which Shelob had for so long dwelt. It had been to Sméagol as though the white Face had suddenly descended itself into the dark lair, and his eyes had been stung even as he watched from afar. He could not imagine how it must have been for Shelob, much closer to the source of the hated light, but he could not blame her for her unwillingness to approach it. No, it was the elves who were to blame, the hated elves who had so long ago captured the starlight in the phial, suppressing it, so that at the last moment it had burst forth in a desperate yet failed bid for freedom, blinding all about in its unremitting fury. His hatred for the elves intensified as he realised that it was their designs that had thwarted him – their contrivances that had kept his Ring in the hands of a thief. It was their fault that Shelob had been repelled, and had failed him, so that the hobbits had escaped.

Then there had been the incident with the fat hobbit. He had seen Shelob sneak out and creep up behind his master, and an ephemeral flare of hope had kindled in his heart, as he realised that not all hope was lost. He had crept up behind the fat hobbit, who was distracted and had not noticed him. Jubilantly he had jumped onto his quarry, mocking him with venomous words as his hands sought for the throat. That was his mistake – gloating and giving his enemy that last spark of hatred, the impetus that had driven him off. For that, he had only himself to blame.

Then he had watched as the fat hobbit had single-handedly defeated Her Ladyship. As he had, with the aid of the elves, pierced the hide that no blade had yet dared to strike, and had chased her away. But then the orcs had come, even as the fat hobbit wept over Frodo's listless frame. The fat one had hidden, and the orcs had grabbed the body, hauling it off toward the tower to fulfil whatever dark designs were in their black hearts.

Feeling the wounds that Sam had inflicted on him, he cringed. Revenge was what he wanted. Revenge was what he would have.

"We hates them, precious," he muttered quietly. Then the other voice spoke, coming from deep within him, in acquiescence. "Ohh yes. Poke out their eyeses, we will. Gollum!"

* * *

Onward he travelled, following the path that the orcs had taken; stopping once or twice to listen, but he heard little but the din from the distant Tower. Frodo was up there, Sméagol supposed, and so was the Precious. For now, he could not get It. But the enemy was fighting. The orcs, in the manner of their kind, were killing their own companions. It seemed that naught could ever assuage their bloodlust. He hoped that his master was still paralysed, or already dead, for wresting the Ring from a former bearer was nigh on unfeasible. Instead, he hoped that he was only waiting for the last of the orcs to succumb to his partner's sword before the way was clear. He only had to wait, and then he would break in, fish through the corpses, and…

The thought of the Ring filled his mind, the perfection of the smooth circle of gold. If he had It, life would be good.

As the noise died down, he prepared to enter. But just as he neared the wall, he heard someone approaching. He stopped moving and threw himself against the dark stone, melting into the shadows. Two orcs came running toward him, fear in their eyes.

"Watch out! Shagrat's boys have archers!" one of them hissed to its companion, in the Black Speech, which Sméagol knew from his imprisonment in Mordor. Hearing it again made him cringe, as he remembered the darkest days of his life, cold and naked, splayed out on the table, his chest and genitalia open to the cruel knives and fists of the orcs. Ringless, forced to give Sauron the information that He needed to reclaim the Precious, forced by pain to tear apart his very soul - the secrets of the Precious's location spilling out through his wounds as he fought and failed to endure the everlasting agony.

But even as he recalled those horrors he felt an arrow whiz over his head, and it plummeted into the flesh of the orc nearest him, who stumbled and fell to the ground just before his feet. Sméagol started, pushing himself even more firmly against the rock wall encircling the tower, as the other orc threw itself to the ground, then rushed back to its companion, who lay moaning softly, a sizable shaft protruding from its neck. The unhurt orc bent down and tore a strip of its sleeve, carefully removing the arrow from its companion's neck and using the cloth to staunch the bleeding. But this altruistic act, inspired by what, Sméagol couldn't guess, cost the orc its life, for Sméagol managed to creep up behind it and get his hands around its filthy neck, and as it gurgled and spluttered, its companion profusely bleeding on the ground beside it, Sméagol felt for the Ring. His hope was that these orcs had grabbed It and ran, but it was a vain hope. The Precious was not on them.

Yet, while he waited, he was aware of some business that needed to be attended to - some revenge that needed to be taken. The denizens of Mordor had not yet been repaid for the suffering he had endured. The suffering that had forever changed him, the agony that had damaged his heart beyond healing, had not been avenged. Of course, there was no way to make it completely right, for some wounds can never heal, and his suffering in the stronghold of Sauron could never be avenged, no erased from Sméagol's memory. Yet he could still take it out, could still discharge some of the hatred and rage against those monsters that had caused him to endure the unendurable pain.

He looked up to ensure that the fighting in the tower ensued, and, pleased that it did, he turned his attention to the orc beside him – the one not yet dead, which had received the arrow wound to its neck. It looked up at him with pleading eyes, begging, perhaps, for him to end its suffering, but Sméagol's eyes lit up with a fell green that he saw reflected in the black eyes of the orc. He would make it suffer – make it pay.

With a hiss and a growl, he grabbed the arrow from the ground and stabbed it into the orc's arm, clamping its mouth shut with his other arm. He felt it squirm and struggle beneath him but the loss of blood had weakened it to the point where its efforts were futile. Then, relishing in his vengeance, he tore the shaft across the orcs arm, then dug his fingers in the wound and tore hard, grabbing the flap of skin and tearing it off the arm, the orc below thrashing and trying to scream with its last reserves of strength. The other arm he tore at too, twisting it backwards until he heard the satisfying snap of the bones breaking, and felt the muffled scream of the agonised orc beneath his hand. He then stabbed the arrow into the monster's abdomen, and then yanked it out, digging his fingers into the orc's flesh and tearing it apart.

But he heard something, and suddenly he froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that someone else was making toward the tower. In horror, Sméagol recognised Sam, undoubtedly coming to his master's rescue.

"Cursesss," Sméagol hissed, wrenching his hands out of the orc and punching it hard in the stomach to release some frustration. But as he did so, he unintentionally released his hold on the demon's mouth. In the brief second that he looked down into its dark and unforgiving eyes, he expected it to curse him, to scream, but it did not. Instead, it gasped one word, soft and light, yet strained by the agony it had just endured: "Why?" And then, having said all that it had wanted to, it at last succumbed to death, and later that one word haunted Sméagol more than any curse could have.

* * *

But at the moment, there were other things on his mind, foremost, his master and the fat hobbit. He waited. Bells rang out. Still Sméagol didn't move. He would wait until the hobbits left the tower. Once they emerged, weakened and burdened by the weight of the Precious, he would strike at them, and kill them. He stared down at his bloody hands, black and sticky with the orc's blood, and imagined them, around the necks of the hobbits, sighing in pleasure as he did so. Then there would be nothing between him and It.

Soon enough they surfaced from the cold depths of the tower, dressed in orc-fashion, though Sméagol smelled them well before he saw them. He began to follow at a safe distance, observing them, trying to see signs of their weakness. They hobbled slowly across the barren land, his master struggling under the weight of the Precious, the fat one supporting him. Sméagol slowly advanced.

He tripped on a rock, and was sent sprawling noiselessly to the hard earth. Furious, Sméagol got back up and resumed his pursuit. He was fuming as his carelessness – he never tripped anymore. His movements had become delicate and subtle after five hundred years of practice.

He realised that the exhaustion and lack of food was debilitating him as much as it was affecting the hobbits. He did not have the advantage of speed that he was accustomed to having. Despairingly, he figured he was not yet strong enough to win a fight against the hobbits. He was as malnourished as they were, even more so, perhaps.

But he had patience, the same patience that had allowed him to set up the trap at Shelob's Lair. He could wait, for he knew that he would reclaim the precious by the end. No one wanted it more than he did, and when the battle of strength became a battle of will and perseverance, he knew that he would triumph.

From the hobbits' talk, he gathered that they were heading to Mount Doom. Also, Sméagol could tell they were swiftly weakening. The burden of the Precious made each step a hundred times more difficult, and by the time the hobbits reached the fiery mountain, they would not have a chance. Sméagol knew he had to travel ahead to the mountain, and wait to ambush them there. Getting the Ring was the only thing important to him, and to do so, it was essential that his opponents be as weak as possible.

"We waitss and gets stronger, oh yes, Precioussss. Then we wrings their filthy neckses!"

Satisfied with his plan, Sméagol stopped trailing the hobbits, and went on ahead, down the road to Orodruin. The journey was not as difficult as he had expected it to be, as hope propelled him onward. He passed many companies of orcs, but he was well trained in staying hidden.

Sméagol had difficulty finding nourishment, as nothing edible seemed to grow in Gorgoroth, and game seemed to be utterly absent. Water was exceptionally hard to find. However, he occasionally found scraps of food along the way, most likely some that had fallen out of travelling orcs' pockets. These he devoured hungrily, caring not what the meat was, for he needed nutrition to sustain himself, in order to get the Precious. As he continued onward he began to find more food, and slowly he felt his strength return.

He was seldom spotted, and only one orc that saw him actually acknowledged him, and spoke to him in their tongue.

"Gollum?" the peculiar orc asked, and Gollum started, wondering how this orc knew of him. "What are you doing here?"

"Nothing, precioussss," Gollum hissed, cringing as he spoke in the hated language. He slunk back, and waited for the orc to turn so that he could strike. But when the orc simply shrugged and turned to leave, Sméagol was petrified, some echo of a long-forgotten question in the back of his mind. For a moment, Sméagol stayed immobile, hesitating. The orc really did not seem to care, and had no intent on killing him, or turning him in. Sméagol was utterly bewildered, observing as the orc got back on his warg, spoke softly to her as though to a friend, and sped off.

For a long time, Gollum asked himself why he had let the orc leave. Was it not his duty to kill all orcs – were they not all evil? Sméagol could not say why, but, in speaking to him, the orc had established himself as a living being, with its own cares and worries. Sméagol wondered what was going on in his mind, whether he, too, had cares and worries, whether he had friends, parents, or perhaps even a brother.

Furious at himself, Gollum snapped out of his sudden sentimentality. "We should have killed him, eh, Precious! Oh yess, we should. Weren't no point to letting him live – it live, Preciousss. Just nassty orcses, after all."

* * *

Days went by. Still Sméagol travelled on, toward Mount Doom. Food grew scarcer as he neared the ashen slopes of the mountain, where orcs seldom roamed save for those select elite on special purposes of the Eye. Sméagol let them go when he saw them, not out of pity, he told himself, but out of a need to conserve his strength for the task ahead. And it was for that same reason that he forced himself on. The thought of the Ring was his sustenance, and gave him strength even when his emaciated body was failing him.

He laboured up the slopes of the volcano, following the cracked, little-used path. Up and around it zigzagged, winding toward the summit. A short distance from the cave at the road's end Sméagol stopped, and found a sheltered spot where he could wait, and recover his strength, which had been utterly spent in the climb.

He did not feel like he had waited long, for to him it seemed only hours before he could smell the scent of his old master wafting up the mountain. In reality, he had no idea how long it had been, or indeed, whether it was day or night. The smoke of the mountain hung above him, despairing and oppressive, and beneath it, Sméagol gave heed to naught but the one shining beacon amidst the barren and dried sea of darkness: His Precious.

He heard the hobbits clambering over the broken road.

"Help me, Sam!" came Master's voice, weak and soft. Sméagol peered over the top of the rock behind which he was concealed. Down in the distance, he saw the fat one holding his master, limp, in his arms, struggling up the mountainside.

Pity, for a moment, awoke in Sméagol's heart, as he saw in their thin, stretched forms a refection of himself. He realised that the Precious had consumed his master as it had, so long ago, consumed him. And he pitied his old master, knowing how great the pain would be when he took the Precious from him.

However, even in the moment those thoughts entered his head, Gollum could even feel himself struggling to banish it from his heart. It took less than a second before the brief moment of empathy was crushed by his want of the Ring. And as they drew nearer, his master and the fat hobbit morphed from tired, weak hobbits to heartless enemies. The scent of the Ring lay upon them.

Master passed just beneath him, and for a moment, Sméagol hesitated, knowing that it was taboo to attack one so defenceless. But the Ring was just below him, calling to him, and Gollum knew that he would not resist. He had no desire to resist the melodious call of the Precious.

Yet, at the same time, another voice spoke in Sméagol's head, reminding him of how much his master had cared for him, and Gollum found himself unable to move. Sméagol looked down at Master, at what he, Sméagol, had once been, so many hundreds of years ago, and a single tear fell down his cheek, the last drop of water left in his parched body.

"We can wait, eh, Precious?" Sméagol whispered. "What are the hobbitses doing here, eh?"

But he knew, and had known all along, even though he had not dared utter it to himself. He had lied to himself, for fear that the revelation would strip away the last vestiges of his humanity. But Gollum would be oppressed no longer, and at once he ceased lying to himself. It felt as though it came to him suddenly, even though there had never been a doubt.

Their purpose was revealed. They had come here to destroy It!

* * *

Sméagol staggered, stunned, shocked that his master, his kind master, could ever do such a thing. Pity, or rather, the strength for resistance, left his heart.

Gollum jumped down onto his master, and he fell from the fat hobbit's back. The three of them fell onto the ground, and Gollum struggled, trying to wrest the Ring from his master. But his master fought back vehemently – all his strength went to holding on to the Precious. Sméagol was unable to get a grip on it, and he realised that, perhaps, there was another who wanted It as much as he did.

"Wicked masster!" he yelled in fury. "Wicked masster cheats us – cheats Sméagol! Gollum! He musstn't go that way! He musstn't hurt Preciouss. Give it to Sméagol, yess, give it to us… Give it to usss!"

Gollum, however, did not stand a chance. He was overpowered, and weak from hunger. His emaciated frame had not the strength to match that of his opponent, whose last dregs of energy had been summoned in response to the attack on the Ring.

Possibly some hesitation, Sméagol's subconscious unwillingness to harm his master, had stopped Gollum from giving it his all. He cursed himself, regretting every moment of pity that he had ever felt.

"Down!" his master yelled, towering over him. "Down, you creeping thing, and out of my path! Your time is at an end. You cannot betray me, or slay me, now!" His voice was far stronger than it had been before, and Sméagol knew he spoke truly. He tried, still, to retain is bravado.

But Frodo rose before him, and the hideous might of the Ring shone from him. It seemed not to be Frodo speaking, but Sauron Himself.

"Begone, and trouble me no more. If you touch me ever again, you shall be cast yourself into the Fire of Doom."

Sméagol quailed, forgetting that his master had not the power to prophesy.

"Look out!" the fat hobbit yelled, "He'll spring! Quick, master! Go on, go on! No time to lose – I'll deal with him! Go on."

Master ran, and Sméagol was left, weak and defeated, lying on the cold, black earth. He looked up, and saw the furious face of Sam pointing the cold steel of a sword blade pointing down at him.

"Now," Sam cried, "at last I can deal with you!"

Sméagol, however, was crushed, and did not even try to fight. As far as he knew, the Precious was being destroyed at this moment. He knew his life would end the moment the Ring touched the fire. What did it matter if the fat one killed him now?

Even as he asked himself that question, every breath he took told him otherwise. Gollum did not want to forfeit hope yet, nor his life. He knew that his life would be better with the Ring, that the Precious had the power to set his life right, as much as it had the capacity to tear it apart. He fell to his knees and begged for his life, begging for the pity which had lost him the struggle. He begged for one last change to get It.

"Don't kill us!" he moaned. "Don't hurt us with nassty, cruel steel! Let us live, yes, live just a little longer. Lost, lost! We're lost! And when Precious goes, we'll die, yesss, die – into the dust. Dussst!"

The fat hobbit struggled, clearly unable to kill in cold blood, and Sméagol saw that he also, deep within, felt the same stirrings of compassion – the same connexion, as he did. The fat one swore, and lowered the sword.

"Oh, curse you, you stinking thing! Go away! Be off! I don't trust you, not as far as I could kick you, but be off. Or I shall hurt you, yes, with 'nassty, cruel steel.'"

Gollum, relieved and feeling empowered by his second chance, slunk off down the path. He turned, but the fat hobbit kicked him, and he quickly retreated. He pretended to head back down the mountain, but once the fast hobbit's back was turned, he headed right back up. He followed the fat one to the top of the mountain, and into the cave.

* * *

They travelled quickly through the cave, the fat one obliviously in front, Gollum hidden stealthily in the shadows. At last they came to a wide chasm, from which an orange glow emanated. A black silhouette was framed against the fiery wall.

"Master!" the fat one called.

"I have come," Frodo's voice said, loud and authoritative, pervaded with the might of the Precious, and easily audible over the roar of the Crack of Doom.

Gollum froze, petrified, sure that he was here to witness his own destruction. His master continued.

"But I do not choose now to do what I came to do. I will not do this deed!"

Gollum felt an immense relief, as it did not look like his master would destroy the Ring anytime soon. Clearly the might of the Precious had conquered him, as it had Sméagol, so many years ago. Gollum was pleased with that – it meant that he still had time to claim It. However, his master's next words incited him immeasurably – those false, false words!

"The Ring is mine!" Sméagol's master cried, holding the Precious high, and Gollum saw the fiery glow reflecting off It. How dare this silly hobbit claim the Precious! Gollum knew that no one had claim to It, save him, for he had already clamed it, so long age, before Baggins had stolen it from him.

"It'ss mine!" Gollum hissed, appalled. "Mine! My birthday presssent."

At once, abruptly and unexpectedly, Sméagol felt pity for his master, who had been consumed to delusion by the precious. Gollum was, at the same time, furious at the outlandish claim. And his master, it seemed, felt a need to affirm the claim, knowing that the Precious was not really his.

Sméagol's master broke It from the chain around his neck, and slipped it on. Gollum was prompted into desperate action.

He charged forward, striking Sam violently behind the legs, and casting him to the ground. And at the same time, the very earth rumbled with Sauron's wrath, fire leaping from the crevice. At once the Lord of the Rings became aware of the claim made against Him, and He was furious. The cavern was imbued with an orange glow, and it filled with a smouldering heat.

Gollum, however, did not heed the wrath of Sauron, for he knew the Precious would make him even greater than the Lord of Mordor. He left the fat one behind and moved forward, his only care being to get the Precious. He knew that the Precious could reconstruct his broken life, and make everything right again. He knew that Its power was unlimited. He only needed to reclaim it, and teach his master not to take what wasn't his.

Gollum stared at the dusty ground, seeing it move and shift in places, and in that way he calculated his master's position. Then he leapt.

He hit his invisible master, and they struggled, tumbling near the edge of the cliff. Gollum felt around, one hand on Frodo's neck, the other searching. He knew what he was looking for, knew that he could find it. He found one arm, followed it, and came to the fingers. His fingers glanced off metal, and his heart leapt. He grasped down hard, feeling the perfect circle of gold.

He felt It, warm, as It always had been, and electrified with the tension and chaos all around. Imbued with power, great and omnipotent. He was filled with a stronger desire than he had ever known. He could see nothing but Its image in his mind's eye.

Slowly, Gollum brought Frodo's finger to his mouth, and bit down hard. Frodo cried, but Gollum didn't hear. He heard nothing at all.

Then, suddenly, Frodo reappeared, gasping and screaming in pain. Gollum, a huge smile on his face, grabbed his prize. He stared deep into It in fascination, adoration, and devotion. His Precious.

* * *

As he held up the Ring, as Gollum jumped up and down in joy at the brink of the Crack of Doom, Sméagol awaited the miracle. He waited for his broken life to piece itself together, for the Precious to lift his life from the bitter ashes of despair and hatred.

Nothing happened.

* * *

And doubt crept into Sméagol's mind. Even as Gollum stared into the perfection of his love, his Precious, Sméagol wondered whether It was really what he needed. Could the Precious really solve all his problems? Sméagol wondered whether it was cheating – to try and escape his problem through the Ring, without confronting them. There were things that had been done, and things that had been said, and Sméagol knew that nothing could undo or unsay them. He realised what he had known all along, but had never admitted to himself. The Ring could not ease his conscience. Forgiveness, what he really needed, could not be attained so easily.

Gollum held the precious aloft, bouncing around in utter joy. But, at the same time, Sméagol doubted whether he had done the right thing. He had so firmly believed that the Precious would solve everything, and he had allowed himself to go to any lengths to get it. Now, staring at It, he realised that he had been misled, and that his betrayals had not benefited him as he had believed they would. All they had done was ruin his relationship with his master, and make an enemy out of one who was only trying to be a friend.

Then, as Gollum stared in adoration at the precious, Sméagol saw, as if for the first time, what he was really holding. His gaze leapt from the ring to what it was encompassing – Frodo's severed digit. Blood still oozed from the bottom of the finger.

Sméagol was horrified, looking at his own handiwork, reminded so much of his treatment of his brother, Déagol. Way back then, so many years ago, he had committed fratricide, for the sake of the small gold object he held now in front of him. How had it helped him? How had it saved him?

And as Sméagol asked himself these questions, as Gollum danced in joy, unable to be parted from the precious, Sméagol realised that It hadn't helped him. It hadn't saved him. Like an addictive drug, it had only given the mirage of happiness. But true joy it had utterly removed from his life.

So, even as Gollum jumped, almost unconsciously, yelling "Precious!" in great, genuine joy, Sméagol wondered why he was so joyful. Why was he glad that he had done what he had? Why was he pleased that had he harmed his innocent master so badly? Why was he so happy that had he even tired to kill him, and almost succeeded, in Shelob's lair? Was he happy just because it had gotten him the Ring?

Suddenly Sméagol realised that, perhaps, that was not something to be happy about.

And the moment that thought crossed him mind, Gollum was appalled, and furious. He jolted in sheer horror, revolted that such a thought would ever come within a hundred miles of him. And as his body shook with the shock of such a blasphemous proclamation, he tripped on the edge of the cliff, lost his balance, and toppled over the brink.

* * *

As he fell downward, Gollum clutched the Ring to his heart, for to him nothing else mattered. And as the prospect of imminent death loomed before Sméagol, he wondered: why? Why was he holding, so near to his heart, the Thing that had torn apart his life, and had ruined it beyond healing? Why did he still hold onto it, even as his life was swiftly coming to its close? What use was it to him now?

Sméagol discovered that he had no answers to any of his own questions. And, with that realisation, he struggled against himself, willing himself to feel pity, compassion, and remorse. He willed himself to purge the conscience he had forgotten he possessed.

And as he did so, Sméagol found, incredibly, miraculously, that he had control of his own body. He had the choice – he was more than only a slave to the Precious. And as all those thoughts whirled around his head in the brief second in which he tipped over the edge of the fissure, Sméagol flung the One Ring down into the fire of Mount Doom.

* * *

And Sméagol felt as though his eyes were opened, as though his chains were dropped, and at once he was free. He was just an old, wretched hobbit, and no more. He had done some good deeds in his life, and some bad, but he was free now to choose. He felt hatred, but he also felt love – anger and despair, but happiness also. Hatred of the Ring, and what it had done to him, but love for his master, and what he had done. Anger that his life was coming to an end so soon after his release, but a happiness, greater than he had ever felt, for that freedom, for the brief chance it gave him – a chance for remorse. And while those emotions swirled in his head, some of which he had forgotten how to feel, he felt, for the first time, whole. One being, free of the Ring.

He had been right when he had told Sam, "when Precious goes, we'll die." It was no longer "we". Now it was only I.

And he, Sméagol alone, felt the remorse deep in his heart, a true sorrow for all the wrongs that he had done. For the wrongs he had done his brother, his family, his master, the fat hobbit, even, and even remorse for the pointless cruelty he had shown the orcs.

And Sméagol was flying downward, down into the fires of purgatory, and there he burned away all his sins, his flesh melting and charring in the turbulent lava. Pain overwhelmed him, and the grief of his deeds burned him, until at last the fires consumed him. And at once he felt light, and suddenly he was flying upward, free at last from the chains of his burden of five centuries.

On the wings of the molten fire, Sméagol flew up through the mountain, propelled toward the sky.

* * *