Smeagol hauled his writhing friend from the river's rocks, tilted his face
to the side, and then flung Deagol's head down towards the gleaming
stones, grinding his body into the river muck , the branches, the filth.
Deagol's head cracked on a rock that caught him squarely at the base of his
skull, and his face was suddenly tilted upward towards Smeagol from the
force of his violent attack. He was still. Smeagol stood over him, in
transfixed horror, at the scarlet thread of blood that now trickled out of
Deagol's slack jaw. Smeagol stared at him, numbly, seeing Deagol's eyes
gleaming in tears, and now gazing blankly upward to some far off place.
Smeagol gripped his shoulder, between shaking fingers, and frantically
rattled his still form. Deagol's neck unceremoniously drooped, and his head
bobbed, then lulled over the bruised shoulders and his torn shirt. Smeagol
abruptly snatched his hands away from his victim's corpse, and Deagol's
body collapsed to the ground. Smeagol squealed, and wretched his eyes away.
Smeagol heard a dull heavy thud, saw a bright gleam in the failing light,
as if a star had fallen to the earth. The Ring. It had fallen out of
Deagol's uncurled fingers, and now lay, glowing and cold at Smeagol's feet.
He timidly pawed at the Ring, and flinched at the icy sheen. It seem to
lance through his veins themselves, and called his attention to his
trembling fingers. He raised one outstretched finger and saw something
warm, red and clinging to his finger, staining the pale flesh. He timidly
tapped at the stain and blanched at its heat. It was blood. Deagol's blood.
Bile, revulsion, and fear rose to his throat, and his knees shook so hard, he almost fell. A guttural cry escaped from his quivering sobs as he wheeled away from the ring as though he had been burned. He plunged his hands up to the elbow into the river, and scrubbed them, madly, scraping at them with his nails until the flesh was cut and bleeding and the river's water was red. The sun, by then, was sinking fast behind the hills, and the sky was aflame with the scarlet rays. The silence lay upon him like a burden. The ring, caught in the gloaming wafts of gold flared white in the darkness. Smeagol shut his eyes and turned away.
Deagol still lay where he had been smote, his wheat colored curls wafting in the breathless heaves of Smeagol, and cloaking his pinched white face in shadows. Smeagol lowered his eyes to his slain friend, and hunched under the burden of guilt and horror of the evil he had committed.
He pawed at the muddy curls, with a whimper, futilely, and vomited. He fell forward, his hands splayed in the river's dark mud, and he emptied his stomach on the smooth stones. The full realization that he had committed murder thundered down upon him, sliced through the veils of shock and horror, lanced through his churning thoughts like a lightening bolt on a clear day. No rational thoughts could curdle in his failing mind, save the one that he had slain his best friend.
He was sobbing out a requiem to his fallen friend, a broken wail of tears, regret, apologies, as he gripped Deagol's slimed, white hands in his own. He started dragging the dead hobbit to the river's edge. The river writhed dark and melancholy beneath the pale light of the silvery moon, and the water's gentle lapping seemed to mask the serpentine power that rolled onward to an unseen world. Smeagol paused a moment, panting, to gaze bemused at the furrows in the ground that he had created in moving Deagol's body. He was only a few feet from the current, as he bent down to Deagol once more. Haltingly, he dabbed a tattered bit of cloth into the water, and wiped the blood from the corner of the dead hobbit's mouth, arranged the bloody clothes back to some normalacy. He paused, then brushed the curls back that shrouded Deagol's face. He squealed, almost swooned, then wailed. Deagol;s slack jaw fell open the corners of his mouth twisted into a snarl, his eyes bulging, and rolled upward, the whites gleaming like pearls out from the face, and the flesh gleamed with a fine frost of water and tears. Panic surged through Smeagol, gave him a fevered strength, made his decision. He heaved the corpse high, bowed under the weight, and felt Deagol's cold flesh against his own. He arched his back, staggered forward, and flung the corpse into the river. Deagol bobbled in the current, his curls haloed in the stars, and wafting like wafting seaweed, before the dark water swallowed him, and dragged his corpse into its unseen depths. A small bubble, and a flash of his bright vest were the only indications that a hobbit had been thrown into the river
Smeagol stood, watching the writhing currents, shaking..straining to deny what he had done, searching for a means to salvage this evil..
"Smeagol.."
A muted whisper broke through his stupor, and he stiffened, in terror as he whipped around to locate the source of the voice. It was as fair as sunlight, and clear as thunder, as it rose again, unseen. "Precious one." a whispering hiss, this time, coiled somewhere, as an unknown serpent, cloaked now in his own voice...
Smeagol shook his head, and whimpered, his frantic eyes now burning with tears. "Smeagol.do not fear me." The voice was a gentle as a caress, and drenched with sympathy.. "Come, my precious, I will not hurt you." He clapped his hands over his ears, hunched over, and sobbed. The voice was unhindered by his resistance, as it whispered, falling into his fevered brain like a soft rain, pierced the last shred of will, took root of the flagging sanity..
"Precious Smeagol, why do you cry?". He groaned, collapsed, trembled as he realized that the voice-that siren's call- was not coming from some unseen place, but was echoing from the confines of his own skull. "Smeagol, Smeagol, come to me, and I will comfort you." Smeagol rocked, and whimpered, his cheek twitching, his head on his knees, his body folding into itself, collapsing inward..
"No.please.."
"Smeagol, arise and take your burden." The voice thundered in his mind with the stern lilt of an ocean's tide and it forced him to his feet when gentleness did not. Smeagol's limbs seemed dead an eon, and as heavy as if a mountain had been laid upon him, but he lurched uncertainly to his feet. "Take your burden!" The voice was a whiplash now, and he reeled as if struck from an unseen blow. The voice was loud with rage, and he suddenly felt fire surging through his torpid veins with the potency of lava flowing through ice.
He swayed, wavered, fell to his knees again. "Arise!" Smeagol could only answer in sobbing hysterics, his body quivering with the spasmodic chokes.but he obeyed.
"Precious Smeagol, let me comfort you.." The voice was low and cooing, and he almost felt himself locked in a loving embrace. "Smeagol, precious, come to me.."
Smeagol crawled forward, tears mingling with bile and blood from where his nails had cut into his hands from the strain. "Please..let me be." he whimpered. But, his body, heedless of his will, lurched on, weakly, but his limbs were quivering so much, that each movement seemed to herald an immediate collapse.
"Come forth and I will unmake the evil you have made.." Smeagol winced in agony, and his knees buckled. He fell again, convulsed into his shrieking sobs, and rolled into fetal position in the ravaged moment. Deagol's blood felt warm on his hands again, Suddenly he felt the yielding throat between his curled fingers, heard the choking gasp of Deagol's last breath, before his head rolled back and his leaking eyes lost their panicked glaze.only to be filled with the blank infinity that was all the more terrifying in its finality. Smeagol's wail pierced the air, and died away in choking whimpers, as he raised his torpid eyes to se the stars that suddenly seemed like a horde of accusing, unflinching eyes, all glowering down upon him, all demanding attonement for the slain hobbit..
He shuddered
There was no sound, not the voice, not even his own sobs, as the eerie stillness grew so loud and overwhelming that even his breathing and pounding heart seemed ill-placed..
"I will unmake the evil you have made." The words wafted down on him, gentle as falling leaves, but ominous as a seer that had rendered judgment. " I will do so, Smeagol. Watch as I make it so, precious one." Smeagol shook his head, dumbly, his nerves and thoughts now long flayed past any use or ability to resist or comprehend. There was a soft splash in the water, and his body once again disobeyed his will. His trembling legs rose in unnatural strength, and his head turned, his eyes flew open and fixed their gaze at the obsidian river that lay as still as glass at his feet.
The water writhed, and parted, and he saw a pale hand.so white that it gleamed the color of pearls an the veins shimmered blue beneath the flesh...He saw the white, white arm unfurling into a beckoning arch, before it plunged back into the river's depths. A white flicker, beneath the current, its shape distorted by darkness and the moving water surface, emerged.
Smeagol wailed as the bright curls hung limply from the battered head, and the neck.still crowned with the violet bruises where his fingers had wrapped themselves..
"Deagol!" Smeagol's choked squeal came between his clamped jaws, as Deagol, newly resurrected, arched his neck and slowly, smoothly turned towards Smeagol. His face was now rising out of the water like a pale, demonic moon, the mouth twisted into a cruel smirk, and the eyes.. Smeagol felt a throbbing chill surge from his pounding heart, and he felt the full glare of the dead hobbit's eyes.
Deagol's sightless eyes fell on him, filled with a yawning abyss, and yet glowing with so much fell rage that Smeagol wondered how his skull did not crack from the weight of that festering darkness.
Deagol cocked his head to the side, with an arched eyebrow, and he smiled, mockingly, as he shook the wetness out of his bright curls. He strode out of the water, and marched onto the bank. Smeagol wheeled backwards, trying to deny the hideous vision before him. Deagol narrowed his eyes, consideringly, and with a flourish, slid one finger over his bloody mouth, and then held the scarlet stain out towards Smeagol.
Bile, revulsion, and fear rose to his throat, and his knees shook so hard, he almost fell. A guttural cry escaped from his quivering sobs as he wheeled away from the ring as though he had been burned. He plunged his hands up to the elbow into the river, and scrubbed them, madly, scraping at them with his nails until the flesh was cut and bleeding and the river's water was red. The sun, by then, was sinking fast behind the hills, and the sky was aflame with the scarlet rays. The silence lay upon him like a burden. The ring, caught in the gloaming wafts of gold flared white in the darkness. Smeagol shut his eyes and turned away.
Deagol still lay where he had been smote, his wheat colored curls wafting in the breathless heaves of Smeagol, and cloaking his pinched white face in shadows. Smeagol lowered his eyes to his slain friend, and hunched under the burden of guilt and horror of the evil he had committed.
He pawed at the muddy curls, with a whimper, futilely, and vomited. He fell forward, his hands splayed in the river's dark mud, and he emptied his stomach on the smooth stones. The full realization that he had committed murder thundered down upon him, sliced through the veils of shock and horror, lanced through his churning thoughts like a lightening bolt on a clear day. No rational thoughts could curdle in his failing mind, save the one that he had slain his best friend.
He was sobbing out a requiem to his fallen friend, a broken wail of tears, regret, apologies, as he gripped Deagol's slimed, white hands in his own. He started dragging the dead hobbit to the river's edge. The river writhed dark and melancholy beneath the pale light of the silvery moon, and the water's gentle lapping seemed to mask the serpentine power that rolled onward to an unseen world. Smeagol paused a moment, panting, to gaze bemused at the furrows in the ground that he had created in moving Deagol's body. He was only a few feet from the current, as he bent down to Deagol once more. Haltingly, he dabbed a tattered bit of cloth into the water, and wiped the blood from the corner of the dead hobbit's mouth, arranged the bloody clothes back to some normalacy. He paused, then brushed the curls back that shrouded Deagol's face. He squealed, almost swooned, then wailed. Deagol;s slack jaw fell open the corners of his mouth twisted into a snarl, his eyes bulging, and rolled upward, the whites gleaming like pearls out from the face, and the flesh gleamed with a fine frost of water and tears. Panic surged through Smeagol, gave him a fevered strength, made his decision. He heaved the corpse high, bowed under the weight, and felt Deagol's cold flesh against his own. He arched his back, staggered forward, and flung the corpse into the river. Deagol bobbled in the current, his curls haloed in the stars, and wafting like wafting seaweed, before the dark water swallowed him, and dragged his corpse into its unseen depths. A small bubble, and a flash of his bright vest were the only indications that a hobbit had been thrown into the river
Smeagol stood, watching the writhing currents, shaking..straining to deny what he had done, searching for a means to salvage this evil..
"Smeagol.."
A muted whisper broke through his stupor, and he stiffened, in terror as he whipped around to locate the source of the voice. It was as fair as sunlight, and clear as thunder, as it rose again, unseen. "Precious one." a whispering hiss, this time, coiled somewhere, as an unknown serpent, cloaked now in his own voice...
Smeagol shook his head, and whimpered, his frantic eyes now burning with tears. "Smeagol.do not fear me." The voice was a gentle as a caress, and drenched with sympathy.. "Come, my precious, I will not hurt you." He clapped his hands over his ears, hunched over, and sobbed. The voice was unhindered by his resistance, as it whispered, falling into his fevered brain like a soft rain, pierced the last shred of will, took root of the flagging sanity..
"Precious Smeagol, why do you cry?". He groaned, collapsed, trembled as he realized that the voice-that siren's call- was not coming from some unseen place, but was echoing from the confines of his own skull. "Smeagol, Smeagol, come to me, and I will comfort you." Smeagol rocked, and whimpered, his cheek twitching, his head on his knees, his body folding into itself, collapsing inward..
"No.please.."
"Smeagol, arise and take your burden." The voice thundered in his mind with the stern lilt of an ocean's tide and it forced him to his feet when gentleness did not. Smeagol's limbs seemed dead an eon, and as heavy as if a mountain had been laid upon him, but he lurched uncertainly to his feet. "Take your burden!" The voice was a whiplash now, and he reeled as if struck from an unseen blow. The voice was loud with rage, and he suddenly felt fire surging through his torpid veins with the potency of lava flowing through ice.
He swayed, wavered, fell to his knees again. "Arise!" Smeagol could only answer in sobbing hysterics, his body quivering with the spasmodic chokes.but he obeyed.
"Precious Smeagol, let me comfort you.." The voice was low and cooing, and he almost felt himself locked in a loving embrace. "Smeagol, precious, come to me.."
Smeagol crawled forward, tears mingling with bile and blood from where his nails had cut into his hands from the strain. "Please..let me be." he whimpered. But, his body, heedless of his will, lurched on, weakly, but his limbs were quivering so much, that each movement seemed to herald an immediate collapse.
"Come forth and I will unmake the evil you have made.." Smeagol winced in agony, and his knees buckled. He fell again, convulsed into his shrieking sobs, and rolled into fetal position in the ravaged moment. Deagol's blood felt warm on his hands again, Suddenly he felt the yielding throat between his curled fingers, heard the choking gasp of Deagol's last breath, before his head rolled back and his leaking eyes lost their panicked glaze.only to be filled with the blank infinity that was all the more terrifying in its finality. Smeagol's wail pierced the air, and died away in choking whimpers, as he raised his torpid eyes to se the stars that suddenly seemed like a horde of accusing, unflinching eyes, all glowering down upon him, all demanding attonement for the slain hobbit..
He shuddered
There was no sound, not the voice, not even his own sobs, as the eerie stillness grew so loud and overwhelming that even his breathing and pounding heart seemed ill-placed..
"I will unmake the evil you have made." The words wafted down on him, gentle as falling leaves, but ominous as a seer that had rendered judgment. " I will do so, Smeagol. Watch as I make it so, precious one." Smeagol shook his head, dumbly, his nerves and thoughts now long flayed past any use or ability to resist or comprehend. There was a soft splash in the water, and his body once again disobeyed his will. His trembling legs rose in unnatural strength, and his head turned, his eyes flew open and fixed their gaze at the obsidian river that lay as still as glass at his feet.
The water writhed, and parted, and he saw a pale hand.so white that it gleamed the color of pearls an the veins shimmered blue beneath the flesh...He saw the white, white arm unfurling into a beckoning arch, before it plunged back into the river's depths. A white flicker, beneath the current, its shape distorted by darkness and the moving water surface, emerged.
Smeagol wailed as the bright curls hung limply from the battered head, and the neck.still crowned with the violet bruises where his fingers had wrapped themselves..
"Deagol!" Smeagol's choked squeal came between his clamped jaws, as Deagol, newly resurrected, arched his neck and slowly, smoothly turned towards Smeagol. His face was now rising out of the water like a pale, demonic moon, the mouth twisted into a cruel smirk, and the eyes.. Smeagol felt a throbbing chill surge from his pounding heart, and he felt the full glare of the dead hobbit's eyes.
Deagol's sightless eyes fell on him, filled with a yawning abyss, and yet glowing with so much fell rage that Smeagol wondered how his skull did not crack from the weight of that festering darkness.
Deagol cocked his head to the side, with an arched eyebrow, and he smiled, mockingly, as he shook the wetness out of his bright curls. He strode out of the water, and marched onto the bank. Smeagol wheeled backwards, trying to deny the hideous vision before him. Deagol narrowed his eyes, consideringly, and with a flourish, slid one finger over his bloody mouth, and then held the scarlet stain out towards Smeagol.