Chapter Eleven: The Choice

"Hours turned into days, days turned into weeks, and love's haze cast its spell over it all. I am sure that in those weeks I must have eaten, I must have bathed, I must have swept and cooked and slept. I remember none of it.

"I remember sitting down at the river bank with Déagol and my grandmother, showing my grandmother how to suck the egg's yolk. Soon her painted eggs filled the smial; all seventy-some occupants had at least one, from my great-great uncle to my latest newborn cousin. 'He's a wonder,' my relatives would say of Déagol when he was not there. 'Purely a wonder.'

"My grandmother decided that she wanted Déagol to live with us permanently. I was there when she told him. He bit his lip and said, 'My family is large and my mother needs help. Give me some time to think about it, please.'

"'I will,' said my grandmother. Déagol bowed and left. I turned to follow him but my grandmother stopped me.

"'You're not to influence him, Sméagol,' she said. 'Don't give him any advice, nor offer any opinions. I know you'd keep him here forever if you could, but the choice must be his.'

"'I know,' I said.

"As he thought of what he would choose, Déagol became even more silent than usual and seemed to be always lost in thought. He picked at his food, and stared into space for long periods of time. If he lit his pipe to smoke, it would burn away without one puff ever being taken from it. He had no more quiet smiles for me; his mouth was always slack and his eyes vacant. Trying to follow my grandmother's orders, I kept my distance.

"He did not sit at his chair by the fire anymore, and after a few days of this I adopted it as my own. The use-worn wood had absorbed his scent, and I would sit in it and rock, inhaling the aroma.

"After two nights of this he came back into the kitchen. I began to rise from my seat, but he raised one hand to stop me. I sat again, my eyes never leaving him.

"He sat at my feet, as I had once sat at his, and rested his head upon my knee. I ran my fingers through his hair, tentatively at first and then with more confidence. His eyes were shut; his breath was steady. We sat like that for hours, until the sun had set and I could see the moon out the window.

"As the fire began to die, he sat up and looked at me. 'Sméagol,' he said. 'I will stay.'

"There was a conviction in his eyes that had been missing in recent days had returned, and he looked more alive, more vigorous, than I had ever seen him. My hand was still in his hair; I could feel him shaking. 'You're trembling,' I said.

"'Sméagol, I – '

"'My dear,' I said, and I raised his chin, bent down, and pressed his pale, soft lips against mine."