A/N: So, I'm not sure if it met the 's guidelines for this challenge, but I like how this turned out so I thought I'd share it with you. Anything recognizable doesn't belong to me. Enjoy! Review! :)
True! Nervous, very, very dreadfully nervous we are, but why, Precious, will you say that we are mad? The Precious has sharpened our senses, not destroyed, not dulled them. See, yes, see, how nicely, how calmly, we can tell our story.
We were never kinder to our cousin Deagol than in the moments before we killed him; carefully, we enveloped him with our coaxing words, tempting the Precious from his hands. Yet how will you say that we were mad? It was our birthday, and we wanted it. Nasty he was; tricksy and false he tried to be. Clever were we in tempting the beguiling artifact from his hands.
Close, close we crept, up on the riverbank—as we watched and waited. Would a mad one have done it with such precision and care, my Precious?
He might have said yes to us, my Precious. He might have given it to us—it was our birthday. Object there was none. Passion there was none. We loved the Precious, that is all.
How abstemious is our nature? We have asked but little! Have we not taken only the Precious, so small a thing—why could he not give it to us?
But he would not.
Obstinacy and folly consumed him, and we had no choice, my Precious! The deed was quickly done, our hands closed tight round his throat, choking out every selfish breath. He was gone, and the Precious was ours!
Golden, like a fire unquenchable, it burned in our palm—in our heart! Oh, the Precious has left upon us an indelible mark, just as his nasty cold throat will forever be felt upon our hands. We cannot be free of him, my Precious, or of that fire. Never, never.
But wait! If still you think us mad, you will think so no longer when we describe the wise precautions we took for the concealment of the body. Cunningly we hid him, among the rushes. Would a mad one have been so devious? Could a fevered brain, disconcerted and disordered, even hope to approximate the subtleties of our deeds? Could one whom sanity had abandoned have so tranquilly returned home, so seemingly impassive—as though our hands were not still clutching his throat, as though the circlet of fire was not still pressed upon our palm?
No, we were only nervous, my Precious—never mad. Never mad.
Yet still would our family doubt us, reject us, and cast us forth—an evildoer, a liar, a murderer. Alone we went, Gollum, with only the Precious.
Why would they think us mad?
Little does it matter.
We have passed down into the deep.
Long have we watched from the darkness, forgetting our name, our family, our very being—all but our Precious. Here we shall stay, with pale, luminescent eyes, baleful gleaming in the plutonian blackness of this place. Down, deep in the atrabilious gloom, among all that is hideous, rotten, and dead…yet most gruesome of all the vibrant circlet of terrible, beautiful, entrancing gold that glows alive in the dark—the Precious!