What Dreams May Come
I was outside. The sky, pale and empty, swirled above me in gray and white. Around me, the grass shown dark green; black almost. It was morning.
"Where am I now, Captain?"
"You might not want to stay here long, Deagol," the older hobbit said. His voice was low, hinted with a tone of somberness. "This is your grave."
A dark shape suddenly caught my eye. A lone figure, clad in black, standing silently by the hillside. I could just make out the shape of stone at the figure's feet.
A tomb stone.
After a second's hesitation, I slowly made my way over to the figure. Even from this distance, I recognized her, with her dark, shoulder-length hair and tired black eyes.
My mother's gaze was unmoving; fixed on the stone. I knelt down carefully to study it, running my fingers over the smooth surface.
"Why isn't it rough? It feels like a normal stone."
"It only appears as a painted image. Your eyes do not see properly, but your other senses can understand their surroundings. Your feelings tell you everything; you refuse to see."
After a moment, my index finger stopped over a small crevice, a letter carved into the rock. I traced along the lines, concentrating on its shape.
It was a "D."
I continued tracing the letters, filling with dream as I whispered them, slowly spelling them out.
"E...A...G...O..." I lowered my eyes. "...L."
I turned to look up at my mother.
"How is she?"
"It's hard for her," the Captain said "but she's coping."
"How?"
"She knows she has to. She cannot afford to break down now."
"Why not?" I asked, trying to fight back the constriction in my throat.
"Your mother still has one son," he said dully "And she needs to be strong for him."
My eyes widened. "Beragol!"
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The house was dark.
I recognized our room, with its single, rounded window and curved ceiling. The floor in one corner was littered with papers and books. Resting on top of the heap was the crudely-drawn image of a bullfrog, its feet too small, legless, crowded underneath its round body; its ogling green eyes uneven and crossed slightly, its bulging throat larger than the body itself. I recognized it as one of Beragol's.
It was night out. The moon was full, casting a feint light into the room, enabling me to see.
I could see.
"I can see now, Captain," I said with amazement. "Things are clear!"
I looked down at my hands, and whatever happiness I had scraped from my discovery immediately drained away. My hands were still blurry.
"Some things, at least," I added.
"You're accepting the truth, Deagol," he explained. "You've accepted you're no longer part of the old world, but you still have yet to accept what has become of you."
"You mean...I can't see myself...because I don't want to?"
"Yes."
I frowned and lowered my hands, giving the room a final look around. I was standing at the foot of my bed, gazing down at the empty sheets. The smooth, untouched pillow.
That was when I spotted the other bed.
Or rather, the small figure inside it.
He was curled in a ball, covering his face with his tiny hands. His legs were folded tightly against his chest.
It was Beragol.
"Deagol..." he whimpered, shuddering with each breath. "Please come back... Come back, Deagol."
He sobbed and curled himself tighter, trembling harder. I watched him sadly, unmoving.
What are you doing? I asked myself, Don't just stand there; go to him. He needs you. Go to him!
But I didn't move. I couldn't. What good could it do if I tried to help? He couldn't see me. I couldn't tell him I was alright and not to worry; he couldn't hear me. Still, I continued to scold myself.
A pit was rising in my stomach. I wanted to take a step forward, to go over to my brother, but wouldn't. My legs refused to move, as though they had attached themselves to the floor.
Tears stung at my eyes. What was wrong with me? I loved Beragol more than anything. He was the first person I saw every morning. I remembered how I would get up every morning and sit at the foot of his bed, watching him sleep, so peaceful. I remembered how he would wake up early some mornings and jump on me in my bed, waking me, wanting to play. I was always too tired, and would tell him to go back to bed. He never got angry; he just giggled and sat on my bed, waiting for me to get up.
I had always tried to be a good brother for him, but was never convinced that I was doing a good job. There was always a voice in the back of my head saying I wasn't good enough. It told me I wasn't careful enough with him, not watchful enough. I wasn't helpful enough when he needed me to be. I wasn't patient enough, wasn't firm enough. There was always something I wasn't enough of—
"Beragol?"
I spun around.
The figure stood in the doorway, partially hidden in darkness. He seemed about my age, but moderately shorter with a slight stoop in his back. Through the shadows, his eyes shown dark blue, reflecting the moonlight.
He swayed slightly, grabbing the doorframe for support, and his hand came into view. For the split second that I saw it, I spotted a gleam of gold between his fingers.
"...What is he doing here?" I asked. There was a hint of nervousness in my tone.
"Your mother needs the help around the house," the Captain explained. "He agreed to stay for a few days."
I just stared, then nodded with false understanding. "Of course. Who better to help her than the one who killed her son?" My voice rose slightly. "What has he told her?"
"Nothing; at least not the truth."
I felt my jaw clench, and I swallowed back a response.
From across the room, Beragol lifted his head and squinted through the darkness with swollen eyes.
"I can't sleep," he whimpered softly, hiding his face once more.
Smeagol remained where he stood for a moment, gazing through me at Beragol. Then he dropped the bright trinket into his pocket and shakily made his way across the floor. His feet dragged, and he stepped forward blindly. His eyes were sunken, and he was noticeably thinner. He looked exhausted, like he hadn't slept or eaten in days.
Carefully, he knelt down beside Beragol's bed, watching him.
"What is it?" he asked softly. He seemed hesitant, unsure if he should ask. "Did you have a bad dream?"
Beragol just shook his head and curled tighter into a ball.
For a moment, Smeagol was silent. Then slowly he reached out to lay a hand over Beragol's shoulder.
"It's your brother, isn't it?"
Beragol nodded, allowing another sob to escape. Smeagol looked down at him with weary eyes, and slowly ran his hand over my brother's back.
And then Beragol let out a final, heart-wrenching cry and dove at Smeagol, burying a tear-streaked face into his chest.
Smeagol reacted as though he'd been hit. He jumped back, startled, but Beragol's small hands held tight. His eyes grew huge, and I could see the panic that filled them, allowing me to forget what he was for a glorious moment. Seconds passed, and he finally brought his trembling arms up to wrap them around his charge.
"Shhhhhh... There, there," he whispered soothingly. "It's alright, Beragol."
"I just miss him so much," Beragol wept. "What's going to happen to him? Where will he go?"
Smeagol's face showed no emotion. He was simply staring ahead at the wall, like he wasn't even listening. He hesitated again, and looked down at my brother.
"He'll go...where we all go. Somewhere better."
His voice wavered slightly as he said it, and seeing the sadness in his heavy eyes, I knew he refused to believe his words.
Beragol raised his head to meet Smeagol's eye. "Where is that?"
Smeagol looked down. "I don't know," he said, his voice still quivering. "But he's happy now, Beragol. You have to understand that. There's no need to be sad."
He pulled my brother closer, embracing him.
"He wouldn't want you to be."
Beragol closed his eyes, snuggling closer to his older cousin. "Do you miss Deagol too, Smeagol?"
There was another pause, and Smeagol closed his eyes, resting his chin on Beragol's head. He remained still, holding the little hobbit close, until he had finally gathered his voice.
"Yes."
He met Beragol's eyes again. "Get some sleep, now."
He laid the boy back against his pillow, keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder. A feint smile flickered across Smeagol's face, and he pulled my mother's old patch-work quilt up over Beragol. My brother snuggled into the cover, welcoming it. Smeagol stroked his hair, then leaned closer to whisper into his ear.
"Rest now... Close your eyes. That's it. Rest..." His smile grew warmer, and there was a softness in his eyes that pushed aside his exhaustion.
"Rest now, little one."
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Smeagol remained by Beragol's bedside, comforting him, until he finally drifted off to sleep. I remained where I stood the whole time, watching him silently. Wondering.
He was about to get up, a peaceful look on his face, when his foot brushed against a dark object on the floor. He looked down in puzzlement, and blindly felt for it.
I squinted through the darkness, trying to see. Even I had missed it, despite being so close to it. Smeagol wrapped his long fingers around it, pulling it out from the bed's shadow and into the moonlight.
The peacefulness disappeared instantly, replaced by dread, the moment he saw it.
It was Beragol's teddy bear. The very same one I had put in my baby brother's crib seven years ago.
At first, Smeagol did nothing; simply sat and stared at my old stuffed animal, frozen. Then slowly, he stood, took two steps, and sat down heavily at the foot of the bed. Not once did he take his eyes off the bear.
He continued to sit with it, gazing down at it in silence, until he could contain himself no more. He inhaled sharply and wrapped his arms around the soft toy, hugging it to his chest. He lowered his head and shivered, clutching the bear even tighter.
Minutes passed, and he finally stood again. With trembling hands, he pulled back Beragol's covers, laid the teddy bear beside him, and placed the covers over both of them. He watched Beragol for a moment, in debate of whether or not he should sit down again.
But then Smeagol's face twisted into a look of pain, and he left the room quickly.
I watched him disappear into the hallway. I considered following him for a second, but turned back to Beragol instead.
He stirred in his sleep at the sound of Smeagol's departure, and groaned softly. I bent down and nudged his bear—my bear—against him, smiling as he pulled it closer, snuggling deeper into the quilt.
I stood up and took a step back, gazing at him one last time.
And then a bright light filled the room.
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(Well, what did you think? Sorry it took me so long to update; this was a hard chapter to write. I promise the next one will be up much quicker. But I REALLY need some more reviews. Tell me what you think of my story. Cya!)
