Disclaimer: Smeagol and Deagol belong to Tolkein. I do not own the movie
"What Dreams May Come."
What Dreams May Come
"He does look like you."
"Yes; it's the eyes."
"No, I mean he really looks like you" Smeagol insisted, turning his head sideways and he looked in the crib.
"I only see it in the eyes."
"Yeah, they're pretty big. Distract you a little, but he definitely looks like you."
"Right," I said, half-listening.
He raised an eyebrow. "What's with you? You've been going on about this for months. Now the kid's here and you haven't said two words."
"I know; I'm just taking it all in." I looked back in the crib. "Still trying to recover from yesterday's excitement."
"Certainly was exciting. I'll wager you were quite the spectacle running home through the town like that."
"That goes without saying," I said with a laugh. There was a brief silence as we sat, watching Beragol sleep.
Then, "What's that?"
Smeagol nodded to the lump beside Beragol. A tiny corner of the object was exposed; a pale brown, furry-looking corner.
I reached down, carefully pulling back the edge of my mother's old quilt. "Used to be mine when I was little. Figured he'd get more use out of it than me."
"I remember this guy," he said, a tiny smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. He nudged slightly at the teddy bear. "You actually kept it for eighteen years?"
"You never know when you might need to find those sort of things again. They pop up by themselves anyway, like they're just asking to be used."
"True," he leaned back and glanced towards the window.
"Things always have a way of popping up again after a while."
I stared at him oddly. He returned the look, as though he too was trying to make sense of his words.
There was a pause, then we both broke out into sudden—but quiet—laugher.
* * *
I shook my head. "No, Beragol."
"But you promised!" he protested, hurrying to keep up with me. Time had turned him into a wily, ever-active seven-year-old, and my mother and I into paranoid caretakers who spent nearly all our lives watching him like a hawk. He was young, and his curiosity often got the better of him. Once, while reaching under the kitchen table to retrieve something, I had gotten up to find him standing on top of the pantry, which was over a meter tall.
It was because of this that I was trying to reason my way out of bringing him with me that summer afternoon.
"I promised I would take you fishing someday; not today. Besides, you can't swim."
"I can learn," he offered lamely. "Why would I have to swim anyway? You just sit on the bank."
"Not today, Beragol. We're taking the boat out this time. After about three years, we started to notice we weren't catching anything. We're going to try going out on the lake this time."
"What about tomorrow? Can I go tomorrow?"
"Do you think you'll know how to swim tomorrow?"
"Yes."
I just laughed and shook my head. "Sorry, Beragol. It'll be too hard to keep an eye on you if you come. You have to be really quiet and stay really still when you're fishing."
"That's no fun."
"You know," I said, sparking at the comment, "it isn't very fun. At any rate, not to a seven-year-old boy. But when you're old like Smeagol and me, it's all you can do, so you learn to like it."
I steered him down the hallway as I spoke, searching for my mother.
"How old is Smeagol gonna be?"
"Thirty-three."
"That's not old. I heard that Austol Footrunner's a hundred!"
"Who told you that?"
"You did."
"Yes...Well, Mother's in there, so go in there with her, alright? Think you can handle walking from here to there without knocking anything down?"
"Yes," he frowned, recognizing that I was teasing. I squatted down to be eye-level with him.
"Hey, I'll see you later, alright?"
"When are you coming home?"
"Depends. Probably late. You might be asleep when I come back."
"I can stay up."
I smiled, exchanging a quick hug with him.
"I love you," I'd said to him, and then I'd stood, watching as he'd ran into the other room to sit and watch my mother knit. Then I'd turned and walked to the door, stepping outside and closing it behind me.
It was the last time Beragol and I ever saw each other alive.
What Dreams May Come
"He does look like you."
"Yes; it's the eyes."
"No, I mean he really looks like you" Smeagol insisted, turning his head sideways and he looked in the crib.
"I only see it in the eyes."
"Yeah, they're pretty big. Distract you a little, but he definitely looks like you."
"Right," I said, half-listening.
He raised an eyebrow. "What's with you? You've been going on about this for months. Now the kid's here and you haven't said two words."
"I know; I'm just taking it all in." I looked back in the crib. "Still trying to recover from yesterday's excitement."
"Certainly was exciting. I'll wager you were quite the spectacle running home through the town like that."
"That goes without saying," I said with a laugh. There was a brief silence as we sat, watching Beragol sleep.
Then, "What's that?"
Smeagol nodded to the lump beside Beragol. A tiny corner of the object was exposed; a pale brown, furry-looking corner.
I reached down, carefully pulling back the edge of my mother's old quilt. "Used to be mine when I was little. Figured he'd get more use out of it than me."
"I remember this guy," he said, a tiny smirk forming at the corner of his mouth. He nudged slightly at the teddy bear. "You actually kept it for eighteen years?"
"You never know when you might need to find those sort of things again. They pop up by themselves anyway, like they're just asking to be used."
"True," he leaned back and glanced towards the window.
"Things always have a way of popping up again after a while."
I stared at him oddly. He returned the look, as though he too was trying to make sense of his words.
There was a pause, then we both broke out into sudden—but quiet—laugher.
* * *
I shook my head. "No, Beragol."
"But you promised!" he protested, hurrying to keep up with me. Time had turned him into a wily, ever-active seven-year-old, and my mother and I into paranoid caretakers who spent nearly all our lives watching him like a hawk. He was young, and his curiosity often got the better of him. Once, while reaching under the kitchen table to retrieve something, I had gotten up to find him standing on top of the pantry, which was over a meter tall.
It was because of this that I was trying to reason my way out of bringing him with me that summer afternoon.
"I promised I would take you fishing someday; not today. Besides, you can't swim."
"I can learn," he offered lamely. "Why would I have to swim anyway? You just sit on the bank."
"Not today, Beragol. We're taking the boat out this time. After about three years, we started to notice we weren't catching anything. We're going to try going out on the lake this time."
"What about tomorrow? Can I go tomorrow?"
"Do you think you'll know how to swim tomorrow?"
"Yes."
I just laughed and shook my head. "Sorry, Beragol. It'll be too hard to keep an eye on you if you come. You have to be really quiet and stay really still when you're fishing."
"That's no fun."
"You know," I said, sparking at the comment, "it isn't very fun. At any rate, not to a seven-year-old boy. But when you're old like Smeagol and me, it's all you can do, so you learn to like it."
I steered him down the hallway as I spoke, searching for my mother.
"How old is Smeagol gonna be?"
"Thirty-three."
"That's not old. I heard that Austol Footrunner's a hundred!"
"Who told you that?"
"You did."
"Yes...Well, Mother's in there, so go in there with her, alright? Think you can handle walking from here to there without knocking anything down?"
"Yes," he frowned, recognizing that I was teasing. I squatted down to be eye-level with him.
"Hey, I'll see you later, alright?"
"When are you coming home?"
"Depends. Probably late. You might be asleep when I come back."
"I can stay up."
I smiled, exchanging a quick hug with him.
"I love you," I'd said to him, and then I'd stood, watching as he'd ran into the other room to sit and watch my mother knit. Then I'd turned and walked to the door, stepping outside and closing it behind me.
It was the last time Beragol and I ever saw each other alive.
