Chapter Eleven: Fire in the Snow

"My first thought was to turn back home, rather than agree to the mad idea of staying in a cave for months on end. But as I walked to the entrance of the cave and saw the white abyss outside, I knew my choice had been denied to me hours ago.

"Déagol's hair was frozen, I discovered once he came inside. I placed my hands upon it and exhaled hot breath. 'It's dangerous for you to be so cold.'

"He was only half listening to me. 'We need to gather wood,' he said. 'And lots of it, because it will need time to dry before it will be of any use. Last night there were eight loaves of bread left; we should bury them in the snow so they will not mold. As soon as the river is fully frozen we will need to cut a hole and fish, but until that happens we must live off what food we have. The opening of the cave should be blocked, for at some time the wind will change and blow the snow inside.'

"At that moment I felt once again the way I had when my grandmother was ill; all sense of personal desire was gone, replaced by a need for survival. I dressed quickly and followed Déagol out into the snow. For what seemed like hours with no end we felled trees and stripped their bark, working until the cave was half full. By a stroke of luck our boat could be wedged into the cave's entrance, save for a space of about eleven by nine inches.

"When I returned from burying the bread in the snow, Déagol had started a great fire, kept near the small space so that it could get air. I collapsed on the ground and moaned.

"'You must get up,' he said. 'It is like you said before, it is dangerous to be so cold. The wet clothes must come off.'

"'When do you think the snow will stop?' I asked.

"'I have no idea. Weather has always been a subject I am ignorant about.' He began to unbutton his waistcoat.

"'Even my grandmother thought that there would be a mild winter,' I said. 'She told us that when she gave her permission for our journey. Do you think we will survive?'

"'The thought of dying had not occurred to me,' he said."

Frodo cried out and fell backwards in surprise. If he listened any longer he would vomit. "Sméagol," he said desperately, "Master is listening, but now Master wants to sleep. Quiet yourself, Sméagol." His heartbeat quickened as the creature twitched.

"Can you hear me, Sméagol?"

A silence. "Yes."

The difference of the creature's voice struck Frodo again. The being he was speaking with now was such a distinct entity, yet he was Gollum's memory and past. "Who am I?" Frodo asked cautiously.

The voice shrank to a whisper. "The Ringbearer."

"Do – do you know my name?"

"Ringbearer."

"That's a title, not a proper name. Do you know my real name?"

The creature stirred. "Gollum. Sméagol. Déagol. Baggins. Precious makes all one, yes, all one."

"It doesn't," Frodo said at once, his voice sharp. "I'm not you, and neither of us is Bilbo, or Déagol, and neither of them are Sméagol or Frodo."

"All carry precious, yes? All wear precious, turn invisible, family thinks we are mad, yes. All fight to keep precious."

"That's where you're wrong," Frodo cried. He rose and backed away. "I'm going to destroy the Ring, and then there won't be any more precious, not ever."

Gollum – for he was Gollum now – hissed, which was what woke Sam at last.