(Disclaimer: I own nothing.)

What Dreams May Come

The first thing I was aware of was the sound. A slow, distant pounding, thumping rhythmically behind my ears. A heartbeat, I thought.

Then I became aware of the dizziness in my head. The queasiness in my stomach. The tightness in my throat.

My arms were trembling. I was breathing slowly, wincing at the pain that stabbed my lungs with each inhale.

It was in this moment that I realized I could not feel the ground beneath me. I didn't even feel like I was lying down.

"Deagol?"

Startled, I snapped my eyes open, only to shut them again as I was greeted with a blinding white light.

"Deagol," the voice, an older hobbit man's, said again.

"What?" I murmured, my voice weakened from dizziness.

"Do you know what's happened?"

I thought back, trying to sift through the thoughts swarming through my head. So many questions. So many emotions. So many memories.

After a moment, I opened my mouth slowly and managed to say, "I fell out of a boat."

There was no response. I opened my eyes again and saw whiteness. Brilliant whiteness all around me, shining at me from everywhere. But I saw no one else; no hobbit beside me.

". . .Who are you?" I asked in a stronger voice. "What's going on? What's happening to me, Captain? Why can't I see you?"

The next instant, I felt a hard surface beneath my feet, pressing up at me. A floor.

I felt strength in my legs again, along with the sensation of dizziness as I began adjusting to my sudden standing position.

Once I had regained my balance, I looked around to find myself surrounded by a swirl of tan and brown. I could pick out shapes in the blur, like I was looking at a painting that had been smudged. I was in an empty room. A kitchen.

My kitchen.

"It's my house."

"Yes," the voice said again. "So natural for us hobbits. We always hurry home when we feel uneasy about something."

I blinked down at my hands, but saw noting but two smeared, pale shapes in front of me. "My hands!"

"You're still adjusting. It's always hard to see at first, but you'll be alright soon."

"How soon?" I asked, unable to tear my gaze away from my hands, their thin fingers reaching outward, blending with the swirls behind them.

"Everything shall be clear in time."

"In time," I mumbled, finally lowering my hands. I jerked my head to the right as the faint sound of voices from the next room became clear.

"What are those voices?"

"Friends. Relatives. A few acquaintances."

"All in my house?"

"Go see what they're talking about, Deagol."

I carefully made my way to the door, entering a room filled with hobbits, all talking and murmuring among themselves. All of them were blurs.

Slowly I scanned their faces, trying to recognize their distorted features.

"What is this, Captain?" I asked. I stood on my toes, craning my neck to see over the others' heads. "What happened?"

There was a pause, then he spoke.

"You died, Deagol."

I froze in an instant. Died? How? When?

The images in my head were beginning to sort together. I began to recall events. Older ones at first, then more recent.

I saw images. Images of. . .a boat! Images of a lake, a shore, a clearing among the weeds.

Images of Smeagol.

And then a ring in my hand, shining, shining so bright. . .

Then fighting. Clawing, scratching, kicking. Hands around my throat, squeezing tighter, tighter. The world spinning; spinning slower, then stopping. . .

I felt like I'd been slapped in the face.

"This is a dream," I breathed, stumbling for a second. "This has to be."

"Whom are you trying to convince?" the older hobbit asked skeptically.

I shook my head. "If I were dead, I would know it!"

"Would you? How would you know?"

"Well..." I pondered this question for a moment. "I'd feel...different. Cold, perhaps."

The crowd continued to swarm around me, never stopping.

Never glancing at me.

Never seeing.

"No!"

I began hurrying back to the door. "This isn't real. This isn't really happening. The boat! I must have hit my head when I fell out! This is all just a dream—"

That was I heard her voice.

"I can't understand. It can't be true! No! It's not true!"

My mother.

"Oh, Malva, don't cry," another voice, Myla's, said, "I'm sure he's somewhere better."

I began wading my way through the crowd, following the two voices.

"Mother!" I shouted. "Mother! I'm right over here!"

"She cannot hear you, Deagol," said the older hobbit's voice. "Nor can she see you. You are not of her world anymore."

I ignored him and continued making my way through. I had to see her. I had to find my mother.

"But how do I know?" she sobbed from off to my right. "How do I know he's alright?"

"You have to trust that he is. Just tell yourself that he's with Ingol now."

"Ingol..."

My mother buried her face in her hands.

"Things were going so well. I was finally starting to recover, and now Deagol, MY Deagol's gone. I can't live like this, Myla. How much more will this go on? How much longer?"

I was standing in front of her, watching silently as she went on. Then slowly, I began to take in the words. She was grieving.

Grieving for me.

Because I was...

"No."

"It's always hard to accept at first, Deagol."

I wanted to respond. I wanted so terribly to protest, to tell him he was wrong.

To my surprise though, I couldn't, and simply closed my eyes as the world filled with whiteness, blinding me once again.