Disclaimer: All Tolkien's, except for a few random OCs.
Chapter III: Sméagol
The walls were of stone. Cool. Gray. Hard, uncompromising.
Still, it was not bad for a prison. Better than that place. It even looked comforting after that place. That place. Where…he…had his nasty Orcs come and take poor Sméagol, to find out about the precious. It wasn't fair. Nasty Baggins had stolen the precious from poor Sméagol, had taken the precious far, far away and Sméagol would never see it again.
And even though Sméagol didn't have it, didn't know where Baggins had taken it, the Orcs…the Orcs had…
Sméagol curled up into a ball, every distorted muscle in his body quivering, and whimpered aloud.
They had all been so nasty, so cruel, that Man and that gray-beard who had pecked at Sméagol with questions until Sméagol felt his head would split in two. The Elves at least had given him food and let him sleep. But his sleep was haunted by specters. They had flint in their eyes, blood trickling from their hands.
Sméagol's blood, and others' as well.
Déagol…precious…Baggins…no, no, no…
Sméagol pressed his head harder into the ground. His hands twisted together like two writhing insects and his lips smacked together voicelessly in terror too great for sounds. He closed his eyes, hoping to escape into his own world of mercifully black oblivion. But, of course, there was no escape from the shadows. Fluttering shapes, thin as air, sharp and solid as swords. They came for him. They always did, always would. Once he had been able to slip into sweet sightlessness and remember once more the trees and creeks and grass, more like dreams then memories, but that time was long gone. Alone in the dark, in the lonely cave of his mind, the shadows were still there. He was still their captive.
The door to the storeroom opened and four Elves walked in. Sméagol felt their odd Elven air roll off them like the smell of grass off the earth, felt it hit his skin like a chill puff of wind. He shrank back, turning his face away, muttering to himself. Nasty Elves would hurt poor Sméagol, would ask him questions that he couldn't answer and some that he didn't want to answer.
But they said nothing to Sméagol, though he could hear them talking to each other and could feel their stares slicing through him. He finally looked up at them. All had that strange pearly skin, that fearsome look in their eyes. Three were dark. One was tawny-haired and taller than the others, and he walked over to Sméagol first. He crouched down before Sméagol, his brown-clad knees coming level with Sméagol's half-raised, curious eyes. He looked familiar, this Elf. Sméagol had seen him before, when the cruel Man had brought him to this place.
The Elf bent his head to stare at Sméagol, and a braided lock of hair fell over his face. It gleamed in the dull light. Bright and coppery it was, swinging tantalizingly in front of the rosy cream of the Elf's skin.
…like the dawn's light on the clouds over the creek in spring, like fire, like the precious…
Sméagol grasped the lock with spidery fingers and pulled down on it hard.
Looking amused, the Elf tried to pry Sméagol's fingers from the braid. His eyes widened when Sméagol held on, his grip fierce and possessive. He said something to his companions, something Sméagol did not understand. The Elf then firmly took Sméagol's hand and pulled it from his hair, ignoring Sméagol's faint cry of pain at the Elf's steely grasp.
"Nasty Elf! Sméagol only wants to look at pretty hair, yes, gollum, gollum…"
The Elf looked at him, and Sméagol flinched. He had seen that look before, on their faces when they wanted to know about the precious and were going to hurt him to find out…
But the Elf only turned back to the others, and they spoke for some time in that language that Sméagol did not know. It sounded…odd, in a way that made Sméagol shiver.
Finally the Elf looked at Sméagol again, and Sméagol tensed again under the inquisitive green stare. "Smeagol," he said, and the creature's eyes widened in surprise. It had been so long since anyone had called him by that name. "We will not harm you, so long as you behave well. Your guards shall take you out into our wood to walk, if that seems good to you, so that you shall not have to stay in this darksome hole all your days. But should you try to escape, or give the guards any trouble, you will remain here. Do you understand me?"
Sméagol wanted to scream at the Elf, to pull all his shiny braids out and claw up the skin on his smooth face until it was covered with red, rich blood. But it was best to cooperate for now, best to let them think him simple. "Oh, yes, we'll be ever so good, yes, gollum, gollum, we won't give you any trouble, no, never."
The Elf raised an eyebrow and turned back to his companions, speaking again in that shivery Elf-talk. Then, as suddenly as they had entered, the Elves left. That strange sense of Elven-ness drained out of the room, and Smeagol was once more alone with the walls and his thoughts. He sank back against a stone wall and began to weep.
……………………………………………
Bardil lounged against the side of the door to the caverns, gazing up to watch the sun leave the sky to the moon and the stars.
"What think you of our new prisoner?" Bardil started and turned around; it was Galendur.
Bardil shrugged. "He is a miserable enough wretch, and no threat to anybody, it seems," he said. "I cannot think why the King is placing a guard upon him."
"He is here at Mithrandir's request, I am told," said Galendur.
"Then we can be sure there is no reason for his imprisonment here that a sensible being could understand," said Bardil acidly.
Galendur grinned. The Grey Pilgrim's oddities were part of many a Mirkwood tale and song. "At any rate, it is an easy task," he said.
"Aye, it is. So it is best if you do not question it too closely, my friend," Bardil said with a smile. "Take your rest where you find it."
Galendur laughed. "That I will do," he said, and turned his attention to the sunset. The light furiously hit the dark, spiked tree-tops and for one grand moment all of Mirkwood seemed ablaze; then, just as the glory grew unbearable, it subsided into intimate starlit darkness, and night fell on the Woodland Realm.
TBC
A/N: This was a very Gollum-y chapter. More Elves in the next one, I promise.
