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.
Deagol, head tilted towards the side, with a flicker of a bemused smile on his cracked and bleeding lips, raised his hand, and ran the fingers over his bruised throat. "I never thought, Smeagol, that you had strength enough in those flimsy fingers to slay me."
Smeagol winced when he reached out and placed a white, bloodless hand under his trembling chin, to tilt his face upward. "Ahh, but you didn't know that you would have such a fine birthday present, did you?" His words ended with an ominous hiss. "Perhaps, Smeagol.." Deagol's eyes darkened with a fell flame, as hand slipped from Smeagol's trembling chin to his quaking throat. "Perhaps, I can repay you in kind? That, my dear friend, would be a far finer gift than any gold trinket!" With a snarl, Deagol's hands flew upward, latched onto Smeagol's throat, and clamped down until fingers crushed against his wind pipe. Smeagol could feel his flesh being pushed back into his spine, and his breath spasmodically hiss, and die between his shaking frame, and Deagol's onslaught. Through the stupor of suffocation, and the red haze of his failing senses, Smeagol thrashed, and flailed so hard, that even Deagol swayed with his writhing. Rocks skittered over rocks, as the two hobbits, still locked in the mortal dance rolled in the dark river muck as if they were both drowning. Smeagol's hands groped blindly for a stone to smash Deagol's skull, all regrets he had of slaying his friend forgotten. His fingers felt the smooth coolness of gold, and the ring burned white in his hands. Instinctively, Smeagol gripped it between his shaking fingers, and suddenly erupted. A torrent of gibberish poured from his mouth, black words that tasted foul as they slid from some unknown source. He ended it with a wailing cry of "Precious".. Deagol's frame shuddered, and his face melted from that satisfied snarl to the slack jawed, empty eyed shell he was in death. His hands loosed their grip, and his arms flopped down harmlessly. He collapsed, limply. Smeagol flung the corpse off of him and rose to his full height, and heaved. Smeagol's left hand suddenly flaired white with pain, and he gasped in shock, and agony, as he raised his hand to his wondering eyes, half terrified when he saw that the limb was in tact and there were no gaping wounds. It was the Ring! A flawless circle of gold and flame, shimmering as if it were wrought from the sun itself, the graceful script etched deep, and the gold pulsing as if it had veins throbbing with heat and ..life..
He stood at the river's edge, haloed by that glowing in his hand, and rooted to the ground. His soul quelled in rebellion, and thrashed in his gut like a dying animal, as the tears streamed down his cheeks, and he cradled the ring to his chest. He blanched from the bittersweet burn.
"Smeagol..my precious one.let me bear your sorrow. Let me give you the longings of your heart."
Smeagol whimpered, with pleasure as he felt a surge of joy flood like a fountain to wash the remants of his shattered soul.
"Precious." He whispered with a smile flowering across his lank lips, the bright, mad light warming his tearing eyes.
"Smeagol, you have smote your enemy. See to it that his remains have a fitting disposal."
Smeagol felt the sweet river of strength pour through his torpid veins, and he felt as if he were so full of fire and light, he was nigh to bursting. He was rendered speechless, only able to jabber a vow of obedience. He clammoured down to the to the fallen, drenched form and spat on the corpse. He gripped the shreds of Deagol's vest, and a fist full of the bright curls. With one step forward, and a sweeping arch, of one arm, he raised the dead hobbit like a banner, his torn garments wafting in the chill wind, his body swaying gently, his head drooping. Smeagol flung Deagol's corpse to the writhing depths of the river. A vague smile curled on his lips as he saw the hated face sink beneath the coiling water. He was more pleased to see that Deagol did not emerge this time, but only sank.
The moon, cloaked in shadow and cloud, lanced through the silver veils of the rising mist. The ring, caught in the shaft of the light and half hid by Smeagol's curled fingers glowed a demonic half smile that was answered by the mad grin on Smeagol's face.
'
Hilderith strode down the corridor with her fists planted firmly on her bountiful hips, and her luminous eyes narrowed into mere slits as she peered into the darkness. Her heavily jowled face deepened into a scowl, an for a moment, the iron-willed matron resembled a bulldog more than a hobbit. Her cloud of silver curls was bound tightly into a dignified bun that she still wore, though it was long past her normal sleep. She was still dressed in an elegant robe over her sleeping gown. Though she was not, by hobbit standards, a tall lady, she was wide, and imposing , and more fierce than a dragon when her wrath was roused. Once, she had been light-footed and as merry as any hobbit lass. Once, she had feet made for dancing. In her younger years, she often skipped over the grass with white flowers crowning her russet curls. She was indeed a striking lass, with her dark hair and green-hazel eyes. She had known the sweet years, and recalled them bitterly now when she gazed out at the darkness now covering the hill.
Hilderith folded her gnarled hands-dark with age and as strong as oak roots- over her chest, as she strode out of the dark round hall, and into the chill outside. Far below the gloaming mist that wafted up from the valley, the great river uncoiled itself and wrapped itself, serpentine and silver over the large hills. Stars flamed bright, as she drifted silently over the ground, over the cobbled path that led to her hole. She raised her eyes to look at the hobbit hole and grimaced as it caught the shadows and soon resembled a gaping mouth, threatening to consume her alive...
She shuddered, straightened, and turned away, wrapping her body deeper into the folds of her robe. Hilderith felt an odd sense of foreboding, as if the night itself was waiting for something evil. She shook her head, and wondered, once again, where Smeagol and Deagol had wondered off to. The lads were quite a pair, she mused with a wry grin. Deagol, with his winning charm, and fetching face, and his strong lithe face that radiated an arrogant innocence. He enthralled most. He left young Smeagol-her grandson- in awe. Smeagol, that lad, she thought. He was a large lad for his age, but short and had the grace of a new colt just born. He was neither fetching by his face, or his mannerisms, which left him open to ridicule. He was a rather skulking fellow, ill at ease with all hobbits, save Deagol, and his grandmother, Hilderith. She had seen him, wounded by the caustic remarks of others, how he was too peculiar, sneaking. How unhobbit-like his behaviour was, with his sneaking and his unnatural quiet. His eyes would narrow, and his head would bow, but she had never seen her gentle, introverted grandlad murmur a word of protest. And Deagol, for all of his charm, fed on Smeagol's gentle uncertainty until the lad was all but broken and beaten so much! Indeed, all Deagol-or anyone else- had to do was frown at the lad, and he would dissolve into tears.
Hilderith's eyes narrowed as she searched the mountains for any signs of the lads.It was much too late for them to be wondering about the river at night. She had been uneasy when Smeagol had begged her blessing to allow Deagol to visit from the dwelling over the hills, in honor of his birthday. She felt a vague sense of unease, as she reluctantly gave her blessing.
Poor Smeagol, he was a lonely lad, as it was, with just the shadows of the hills to keep him company, and living with a matron as it were. What would become of her helpless, gentle grand-lad when she passed on? He was little more than a lamb thrown to the wolves or maybe more like the spindled fluff of a dandelion, torn apart and blown away by who ever was stronger than he. And that, thought Hilderith, would be most of the world outside my hole, she concluded bitterly. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shuffling and wailing, the sound of somebody dragging themselves through the trees and about to collapse. She stiffened, and turned her sharp ears towards the sound.
"Smeagol!" she cried, as he emerged from the shadows of the trees, his tattered white shirt and his even whiter skin glowing so pale, he looked as if he were more moonlight than hobbit. Smeagol turned his head towards her, and tilted his head to the side, as if considering her, and she gasped when she saw his dark hair matted and his eyes brewing with some frantic storm. His face was fixed in a grimace of shock, and she shuddered. His expression reminded her of a gutted fish. He moved so slowly, it seemed as if he were floating over the ground.
"Smeagol!" She hissed sharply, more out of fear than annoyance for his long absence. "You look as if you've been drowned in the river, lad-" He whipped around to face her, his face rigid and alabaster, his eyes growing even wider. He started quivering.
"Lad, where is Deagol?" Smeagol's eyes widened to the point of engulfing his quivering cheeks, then flamed. He crumpled, whimpered, his hand curled strangely to his chest, and then he straightened. He gazed at his grandmother, dry-eyed, and eerily self processed. He shook his head, and stiffly marched to the doorway, his shoulders shaking from cold and shock, before the answer trailed softly from his retreating form. "I killed him."
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.
Deagol, head tilted towards the side, with a flicker of a bemused smile on his cracked and bleeding lips, raised his hand, and ran the fingers over his bruised throat. "I never thought, Smeagol, that you had strength enough in those flimsy fingers to slay me."
Smeagol winced when he reached out and placed a white, bloodless hand under his trembling chin, to tilt his face upward. "Ahh, but you didn't know that you would have such a fine birthday present, did you?" His words ended with an ominous hiss. "Perhaps, Smeagol.." Deagol's eyes darkened with a fell flame, as hand slipped from Smeagol's trembling chin to his quaking throat. "Perhaps, I can repay you in kind? That, my dear friend, would be a far finer gift than any gold trinket!" With a snarl, Deagol's hands flew upward, latched onto Smeagol's throat, and clamped down until fingers crushed against his wind pipe. Smeagol could feel his flesh being pushed back into his spine, and his breath spasmodically hiss, and die between his shaking frame, and Deagol's onslaught. Through the stupor of suffocation, and the red haze of his failing senses, Smeagol thrashed, and flailed so hard, that even Deagol swayed with his writhing. Rocks skittered over rocks, as the two hobbits, still locked in the mortal dance rolled in the dark river muck as if they were both drowning. Smeagol's hands groped blindly for a stone to smash Deagol's skull, all regrets he had of slaying his friend forgotten. His fingers felt the smooth coolness of gold, and the ring burned white in his hands. Instinctively, Smeagol gripped it between his shaking fingers, and suddenly erupted. A torrent of gibberish poured from his mouth, black words that tasted foul as they slid from some unknown source. He ended it with a wailing cry of "Precious".. Deagol's frame shuddered, and his face melted from that satisfied snarl to the slack jawed, empty eyed shell he was in death. His hands loosed their grip, and his arms flopped down harmlessly. He collapsed, limply. Smeagol flung the corpse off of him and rose to his full height, and heaved. Smeagol's left hand suddenly flaired white with pain, and he gasped in shock, and agony, as he raised his hand to his wondering eyes, half terrified when he saw that the limb was in tact and there were no gaping wounds. It was the Ring! A flawless circle of gold and flame, shimmering as if it were wrought from the sun itself, the graceful script etched deep, and the gold pulsing as if it had veins throbbing with heat and ..life..
He stood at the river's edge, haloed by that glowing in his hand, and rooted to the ground. His soul quelled in rebellion, and thrashed in his gut like a dying animal, as the tears streamed down his cheeks, and he cradled the ring to his chest. He blanched from the bittersweet burn.
"Smeagol..my precious one.let me bear your sorrow. Let me give you the longings of your heart."
Smeagol whimpered, with pleasure as he felt a surge of joy flood like a fountain to wash the remants of his shattered soul.
"Precious." He whispered with a smile flowering across his lank lips, the bright, mad light warming his tearing eyes.
"Smeagol, you have smote your enemy. See to it that his remains have a fitting disposal."
Smeagol felt the sweet river of strength pour through his torpid veins, and he felt as if he were so full of fire and light, he was nigh to bursting. He was rendered speechless, only able to jabber a vow of obedience. He clammoured down to the to the fallen, drenched form and spat on the corpse. He gripped the shreds of Deagol's vest, and a fist full of the bright curls. With one step forward, and a sweeping arch, of one arm, he raised the dead hobbit like a banner, his torn garments wafting in the chill wind, his body swaying gently, his head drooping. Smeagol flung Deagol's corpse to the writhing depths of the river. A vague smile curled on his lips as he saw the hated face sink beneath the coiling water. He was more pleased to see that Deagol did not emerge this time, but only sank.
The moon, cloaked in shadow and cloud, lanced through the silver veils of the rising mist. The ring, caught in the shaft of the light and half hid by Smeagol's curled fingers glowed a demonic half smile that was answered by the mad grin on Smeagol's face.
'
Hilderith strode down the corridor with her fists planted firmly on her bountiful hips, and her luminous eyes narrowed into mere slits as she peered into the darkness. Her heavily jowled face deepened into a scowl, an for a moment, the iron-willed matron resembled a bulldog more than a hobbit. Her cloud of silver curls was bound tightly into a dignified bun that she still wore, though it was long past her normal sleep. She was still dressed in an elegant robe over her sleeping gown. Though she was not, by hobbit standards, a tall lady, she was wide, and imposing , and more fierce than a dragon when her wrath was roused. Once, she had been light-footed and as merry as any hobbit lass. Once, she had feet made for dancing. In her younger years, she often skipped over the grass with white flowers crowning her russet curls. She was indeed a striking lass, with her dark hair and green-hazel eyes. She had known the sweet years, and recalled them bitterly now when she gazed out at the darkness now covering the hill.
Hilderith folded her gnarled hands-dark with age and as strong as oak roots- over her chest, as she strode out of the dark round hall, and into the chill outside. Far below the gloaming mist that wafted up from the valley, the great river uncoiled itself and wrapped itself, serpentine and silver over the large hills. Stars flamed bright, as she drifted silently over the ground, over the cobbled path that led to her hole. She raised her eyes to look at the hobbit hole and grimaced as it caught the shadows and soon resembled a gaping mouth, threatening to consume her alive...
She shuddered, straightened, and turned away, wrapping her body deeper into the folds of her robe. Hilderith felt an odd sense of foreboding, as if the night itself was waiting for something evil. She shook her head, and wondered, once again, where Smeagol and Deagol had wondered off to. The lads were quite a pair, she mused with a wry grin. Deagol, with his winning charm, and fetching face, and his strong lithe face that radiated an arrogant innocence. He enthralled most. He left young Smeagol-her grandson- in awe. Smeagol, that lad, she thought. He was a large lad for his age, but short and had the grace of a new colt just born. He was neither fetching by his face, or his mannerisms, which left him open to ridicule. He was a rather skulking fellow, ill at ease with all hobbits, save Deagol, and his grandmother, Hilderith. She had seen him, wounded by the caustic remarks of others, how he was too peculiar, sneaking. How unhobbit-like his behaviour was, with his sneaking and his unnatural quiet. His eyes would narrow, and his head would bow, but she had never seen her gentle, introverted grandlad murmur a word of protest. And Deagol, for all of his charm, fed on Smeagol's gentle uncertainty until the lad was all but broken and beaten so much! Indeed, all Deagol-or anyone else- had to do was frown at the lad, and he would dissolve into tears.
Hilderith's eyes narrowed as she searched the mountains for any signs of the lads.It was much too late for them to be wondering about the river at night. She had been uneasy when Smeagol had begged her blessing to allow Deagol to visit from the dwelling over the hills, in honor of his birthday. She felt a vague sense of unease, as she reluctantly gave her blessing.
Poor Smeagol, he was a lonely lad, as it was, with just the shadows of the hills to keep him company, and living with a matron as it were. What would become of her helpless, gentle grand-lad when she passed on? He was little more than a lamb thrown to the wolves or maybe more like the spindled fluff of a dandelion, torn apart and blown away by who ever was stronger than he. And that, thought Hilderith, would be most of the world outside my hole, she concluded bitterly. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shuffling and wailing, the sound of somebody dragging themselves through the trees and about to collapse. She stiffened, and turned her sharp ears towards the sound.
"Smeagol!" she cried, as he emerged from the shadows of the trees, his tattered white shirt and his even whiter skin glowing so pale, he looked as if he were more moonlight than hobbit. Smeagol turned his head towards her, and tilted his head to the side, as if considering her, and she gasped when she saw his dark hair matted and his eyes brewing with some frantic storm. His face was fixed in a grimace of shock, and she shuddered. His expression reminded her of a gutted fish. He moved so slowly, it seemed as if he were floating over the ground.
"Smeagol!" She hissed sharply, more out of fear than annoyance for his long absence. "You look as if you've been drowned in the river, lad-" He whipped around to face her, his face rigid and alabaster, his eyes growing even wider. He started quivering.
"Lad, where is Deagol?" Smeagol's eyes widened to the point of engulfing his quivering cheeks, then flamed. He crumpled, whimpered, his hand curled strangely to his chest, and then he straightened. He gazed at his grandmother, dry-eyed, and eerily self processed. He shook his head, and stiffly marched to the doorway, his shoulders shaking from cold and shock, before the answer trailed softly from his retreating form. "I killed him."