Disclaimer: I do not own Deagol, Smeagol, or the movie "what Dreams May
Come", which a lot of this story is borrowed from. Great movie. Robing
Williams is an incredible actor.
(AUTHOR'S NOTICE: THIS STORY DEALS WITH THE CONCEPT OF THE AFTERLIFE. IT HAS BEEN GENERALIZED AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, SO AS NOT TO ANGER ANY READERS.)
What Dreams May Come
His name was Smeagol.
He was different from most boys his age, though to ask him, he'd say that they were different from him. The fact remained, though, that a huge gap separated the two.
There was always something that drew me to him; a uniqueness, a mysteriousness that only I seemed to have a loose understanding of. We spent most of our time together, though to this day, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because we had a lot in common, or that I was curious about him, or maybe it was just the simple fact that we were cousins, and as a result saw each other quite often. Again, I have yet to realize why.
I suppose I was a bit different myself. Not as solitary or soft-spoken as Smeagol, but still different. I preferred his company to others'.
"Stop worrying." he said, sitting beside me. "You're mother isn't even this worked up!"
"I can't help it. The wait's killing me!"
The sun seemed exceptionally bright today, hanging over our heads and beating down on the small clearing on the river bank where we sat. We'd gone down to fish, but so far, I'd been able to do nothing but watch Smeagol. I was nervous. My hands were shaking; I could barely grip my fishing pole. Even sitting on my hands didn't help.
He blinked his sapphire eyes and stared fixedly at the ring of ripples surrounding his hook in the water. I squinted up at the sun and began scratching my palms, which had suddenly become itchy.
Smeagol saw this, and figured I wanted to talk. "What are they going to call it?"
"Beragol if it's a boy; Freda if it's a girl."
"Nice names."
"Yeah..." I kicked at the water, looked up at the sun again, then went back to watching the hook. "Think I'll make a good brother?"
"What?"
"You know; some one for him to look up to. Give him advise. That kind of thing."
"Deagol. Relax." He said, almost laughing. "The kid hasn't even been born yet."
"I know. It's just...I've never been a big brother before. I'm just worried."
"Why? You've known about it for eight and a half months."
"You're missing the point here, Smeagol."
"How so?"
"It's like..." I sat on my hands again, "I just had this all dumped on top of me. I mean, It's just me and Mother, now..."
This got his attention. He looked at me oddly, and I pretended to be interested in something in the grass. A lump rose in my throat as I plucked half-heartedly at the dark green blades.
"That's what this is about, isn't it?" he asked somberly. I nodded and leaned forward, arms folded over my lap.
"It's been almost three months. I...I just don't know what to do. It's like I have to fill in for him."
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to meet his eye.
"You'll do just fine. Just wait and see." He looked back out at his hook. There was barely a ripple.
"Do you see anything, yet?"
"No; the way we've been talking here, I doubt anything's going to come over. Guess I'll just have to this the old-fashioned way and dive in after it."
Despite myself, I laughed. "That was a real winner, wasn't it?"
"Hey, I never would have went in if you hadn't pushed me," he said jokingly.
"I didn't push you!"
"Yes you did! Right in! You pushed me right in!"
"I was just being encouraging! It was just a pat on the back!"
"Oh, you pushed me."
"Well...I might have patted a little too hard."
"Exactly!" he said, holding up a finger. I rolled my eyes.
He lifted his line out of the water. "Never gets old, fishing. Way I see it, we'll be sitting here when we're eighty, still trying to catch a fish."
"That's inevitable. You never catch anything."
He looked at me. "Yes I do," he said lamely.
"Not recently."
"I caught one."
"When?"
"Few months ago. Remember? We were out in a boat?"
"Oh. Yeah, you did."
"Two actually, if you include that one you...so encouragingly patted me in after."
Feeling this had ended the argument in his favor, he got up and began walking off into the trees.
"...Yeah, but that wasn't with a hook!" I shouted, staggering to my feet and hurrying after him.
* * *
The day had come two weeks later. I don't suppose I shall ever forgive myself for not being there when it happened, but it came so sudden that it couldn't be helped.
Smeagol and I had been fishing at the clearing, as always, when Myla Hardkennel, a friend of my mother's, had come running out of the trees behind us, shouting my name. I found it odd that she'd known exactly where to find our favorite fishing spot, considering that she'd never held a conversation with me once in our lives.
I'd turned and stare at her blankly, wondering the above thought, when she'd come to a stop and gasped, "You've got to come home now!"
"Why?"
She'd taken a deep breath, and said "It's a boy."
Smeagol would not let me forget my reaction to this for several weeks. I'd leapt to my feet exclaiming "What?!" and then "Tell me what I missed!" back to him when Myla had clarified that I now had a brother. I'd run into the woods, dragging my fishing line behind me.
I'd burst through the door and come face-to-face with my mother, who just smiled at me. She looked tired, as she had for a while now, but there was something different in her eyes this time, something new. A feeling of ease, a peacefulness, like a heavy load had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in months, she looked happy.
She'd nodded towards the door to her room, and after a moment's hesitation, I'd gone inside.
The first thing I'd noticed was the crib, sitting by the bed. I was trembling as I walked up to it, unsure of what to expect for some reason. Carefully, I'd placed a hand on the rail and leaned over to look inside...
And there he was. He stared up at me, blinking curiously with large, brown eyes. Eyes like mine.
I'd smiled down at him, and slowly, ever so slowly, I parted my lips and spoke. "Hello, Beragol..."
(AUTHOR'S NOTICE: THIS STORY DEALS WITH THE CONCEPT OF THE AFTERLIFE. IT HAS BEEN GENERALIZED AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, SO AS NOT TO ANGER ANY READERS.)
What Dreams May Come
His name was Smeagol.
He was different from most boys his age, though to ask him, he'd say that they were different from him. The fact remained, though, that a huge gap separated the two.
There was always something that drew me to him; a uniqueness, a mysteriousness that only I seemed to have a loose understanding of. We spent most of our time together, though to this day, I'm not sure why. Maybe it was because we had a lot in common, or that I was curious about him, or maybe it was just the simple fact that we were cousins, and as a result saw each other quite often. Again, I have yet to realize why.
I suppose I was a bit different myself. Not as solitary or soft-spoken as Smeagol, but still different. I preferred his company to others'.
"Stop worrying." he said, sitting beside me. "You're mother isn't even this worked up!"
"I can't help it. The wait's killing me!"
The sun seemed exceptionally bright today, hanging over our heads and beating down on the small clearing on the river bank where we sat. We'd gone down to fish, but so far, I'd been able to do nothing but watch Smeagol. I was nervous. My hands were shaking; I could barely grip my fishing pole. Even sitting on my hands didn't help.
He blinked his sapphire eyes and stared fixedly at the ring of ripples surrounding his hook in the water. I squinted up at the sun and began scratching my palms, which had suddenly become itchy.
Smeagol saw this, and figured I wanted to talk. "What are they going to call it?"
"Beragol if it's a boy; Freda if it's a girl."
"Nice names."
"Yeah..." I kicked at the water, looked up at the sun again, then went back to watching the hook. "Think I'll make a good brother?"
"What?"
"You know; some one for him to look up to. Give him advise. That kind of thing."
"Deagol. Relax." He said, almost laughing. "The kid hasn't even been born yet."
"I know. It's just...I've never been a big brother before. I'm just worried."
"Why? You've known about it for eight and a half months."
"You're missing the point here, Smeagol."
"How so?"
"It's like..." I sat on my hands again, "I just had this all dumped on top of me. I mean, It's just me and Mother, now..."
This got his attention. He looked at me oddly, and I pretended to be interested in something in the grass. A lump rose in my throat as I plucked half-heartedly at the dark green blades.
"That's what this is about, isn't it?" he asked somberly. I nodded and leaned forward, arms folded over my lap.
"It's been almost three months. I...I just don't know what to do. It's like I have to fill in for him."
I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to meet his eye.
"You'll do just fine. Just wait and see." He looked back out at his hook. There was barely a ripple.
"Do you see anything, yet?"
"No; the way we've been talking here, I doubt anything's going to come over. Guess I'll just have to this the old-fashioned way and dive in after it."
Despite myself, I laughed. "That was a real winner, wasn't it?"
"Hey, I never would have went in if you hadn't pushed me," he said jokingly.
"I didn't push you!"
"Yes you did! Right in! You pushed me right in!"
"I was just being encouraging! It was just a pat on the back!"
"Oh, you pushed me."
"Well...I might have patted a little too hard."
"Exactly!" he said, holding up a finger. I rolled my eyes.
He lifted his line out of the water. "Never gets old, fishing. Way I see it, we'll be sitting here when we're eighty, still trying to catch a fish."
"That's inevitable. You never catch anything."
He looked at me. "Yes I do," he said lamely.
"Not recently."
"I caught one."
"When?"
"Few months ago. Remember? We were out in a boat?"
"Oh. Yeah, you did."
"Two actually, if you include that one you...so encouragingly patted me in after."
Feeling this had ended the argument in his favor, he got up and began walking off into the trees.
"...Yeah, but that wasn't with a hook!" I shouted, staggering to my feet and hurrying after him.
* * *
The day had come two weeks later. I don't suppose I shall ever forgive myself for not being there when it happened, but it came so sudden that it couldn't be helped.
Smeagol and I had been fishing at the clearing, as always, when Myla Hardkennel, a friend of my mother's, had come running out of the trees behind us, shouting my name. I found it odd that she'd known exactly where to find our favorite fishing spot, considering that she'd never held a conversation with me once in our lives.
I'd turned and stare at her blankly, wondering the above thought, when she'd come to a stop and gasped, "You've got to come home now!"
"Why?"
She'd taken a deep breath, and said "It's a boy."
Smeagol would not let me forget my reaction to this for several weeks. I'd leapt to my feet exclaiming "What?!" and then "Tell me what I missed!" back to him when Myla had clarified that I now had a brother. I'd run into the woods, dragging my fishing line behind me.
I'd burst through the door and come face-to-face with my mother, who just smiled at me. She looked tired, as she had for a while now, but there was something different in her eyes this time, something new. A feeling of ease, a peacefulness, like a heavy load had suddenly been lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in months, she looked happy.
She'd nodded towards the door to her room, and after a moment's hesitation, I'd gone inside.
The first thing I'd noticed was the crib, sitting by the bed. I was trembling as I walked up to it, unsure of what to expect for some reason. Carefully, I'd placed a hand on the rail and leaned over to look inside...
And there he was. He stared up at me, blinking curiously with large, brown eyes. Eyes like mine.
I'd smiled down at him, and slowly, ever so slowly, I parted my lips and spoke. "Hello, Beragol..."