Title: We Watches
Author: Culumacilinte
Rating: Oh, give it a PG, just for some disturbing imagery
Character(s): Gollum, mentions of Sam
Summary: Gollum is always watching; he has no choice- first person Gollum POV
Disclaimer: I own nothing- this is merely an expression of my deep and abiding love for The Lord of the Rings, and my bizarre fascination with the character of Gollum
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We watches, Precious. Always we watches. We watches everything- birdses and trees and the cold, hard stones that bites our poor feet. We watches for Orcses and Wraiths and horrible tall men with cold steel who would snatch Sméagol away. Most specially, we watches the Master, the Baggins, and we watches his stupid friend, the Fat One.
The Fat Hobbit watches us back; it sees more than it should, so dim and thick and stupid! But it sees us, and speaks so cruelly to us. O! So cruel he is! Uncaring, unknowing. We watches it when its back is facing poor Sméagol, and we imagines wringing its neck, seeing how its eyes pop and bulge and its tongue wriggles in its stupid mouth like a fat, juicy worm. O, Precious... how sweet a day would that be for Sméagol! How we longs for it! But no- Sméagol knows how to hold himself back. Now is not time. Is not time. Not yet.
We watches at night, when hobbitses are sleeping, and we sees our birthday present, our beautiful, shining, cruel ring. Cold it is, and it winks at us in the light from the White Face. How our fingers itch, Precious, to take you back! To bring you back into our cave in the dark to sleep in peace with my Precious. Yech, but it burns at our mind! The vow we took, the vow to keep safe the Master of the Precious. Swore we did, on the Precious, and we cannot turn away though we wishes so badly to, oh gollum, gollum!
No peace. No peace for poor, starving, tortured Sméagol. Because we watches. We wishes sometimes to close our eyes, to shut out cruel light and the dust and ashes and Precious. But we cannot, Precious! We cannot! Our eyes stay open always, and we must watch, watch, watch! If we watches, then maybe the Precious-voice will not speak so loudly in our head, always calling for Sméagol to take it, snatch it, catch it, secret it away. So our eyes is open and we sees everything.
We hates it. It is torture to us. But when Sméagol gets back his Precious, O, then we will close our eyes. Then we will have sleep, and peace. The Precious drives away nasty thoughts we does not want, thoughts of cool rivers in the light of the Yellow Face, of laughing Déagol-eyes and cool shade under willow trees. We remembers willow trees, and Déagol limp like water-weeds in our hands with no blood-warmth in him.
Ach! No! No, no, no, Precious... We have Déagol no more, no more sun-mother or riverbanks. But we have our Precious. So we watches. Watches the swift gold-shine of a pretty ring on its chain, and we thinks of the day when it will be ours again.