What Dreams May Come

I squinted in the afternoon sun, waiting for my eyes to adjust.
I could feel the cool grass beneath my feet, its longer blades
rising up to my waist, and could see the waters gleaming in the
light ahead of me.

The lake.

"How much longer, Captain?" I asked, exhaling heavily. The realization
of my death had fully set in, leaving me unable to cope with my
surroundings. I was dead, and yet I continued to feel and think, to
breath, to walk over grass and across floors as though I were still
alive. It did nothing but fill me with doubt.

"How long will this last?" I asked again.

"As long as you want it to."

I gazed out over the waters, feeling nothing as I conjured up memories
of fishing; memories of laughing, joking, relaxing in the warm sun.
They were fading memories.

"...But what am I doing here?" I asked, suddenly puzzled by the site.
"Why am I here?"

"That is for you to decide. You brought yourself here, Deagol, not I."

I turned to face the trees, straining my eyes to see into the shadows
of their ancient bows. I stared down at the tall grass, running my
hands over the blades.

"But how? I made no request. I wasn't even thinking about this place."

"Your actions are not based primarily on worded thoughts, Deagol," the
Captain explained wearily, as though he was reluctant to tell me.
"They can be triggered by other factors; feelings, emotions; dreams
even. There is something about this place, some emotion that draws you
to it."

Slowly, I began to walk, unaware of where I was going, only knowing in
the back of my mind I was going the right way. It made me think of the
geese I would see on the bank across from me; how the silly birds,
speckled brown and grey, would take off in their neat formations,
always heading south, always knowing where they were headed...

"Draws me to it..." I murmured to myself, trying to remember. My
thoughts were a jumble. Memories were disappearing; replaced by older
images, long forgotten. "Draws me to it..."

My eyes grew wide. An image rose in my mind, forcing aside all the
confusing thoughts. I saw me, a younger me, sitting on the bank. The
grass rose up beside me to the right, but the left side was empty, the
taller grass pulled out to make a comfortable space among the weeds; a
clearing by the—

"The clearing!" I took off running. "It's the clearing!"

Stumbling across the bank, pushing aside the foliage, running faster,
faster! Pulled to the clearing. Had to get to the clearing!

The tall grass fell away, replaced by soft green blades beneath me. A
wave of relief fell over me as I leapt into the open patch...

And I froze.

He was on his knees, hunched over as he leaned against an old oak tree
for support. His hand was raised, and he was holding something up to
his face. His skin was pale, almost white. His hair was matted and
dirty, hanging in his blood-shot eyes as they flickered anxiously.
Almost bird-like he looked, turning and cocking his head as he studied
his prize. His shoulders were trembling, and his breath was labored,
wheezing in and out shallowly.

I looked at him sidelong, hesitating. On seeing him, I wanted to step
back, to turn and leave, but my feet continued to refuse my will.
There was another part of me, though. A part that wanted to step
forward. It wanted to go up to him and kneel down beside him, talk to
him like I always had and pretend that life would go on as it always
had. But I made no movement.

I parted my lips cautiously, and raised my head to look at him fully.

"...Smeagol?"

He made no response, nor did he show any indication that he'd heard
me. I'd known he wouldn't, being as it was that he couldn't, but I'd
called his name anyway. Perhaps I'd wanted to reassure myself, to
convince myself that the figure slumped in front of me really was my
cousin and not some crazed being.

Smeagol lifted his hand higher and held the ring between his thumb and
forefinger. His hands trembled now, and his eyes grew huge. He forced
himself to close them and slowly began to lower his hand.

At first, his hand simply bobbed up and down, like he was unsure of
his next move. He gazed at it painfully, and finally slammed his hand
down on the ground in front of him.

For a moment, he didn't move. He simply sat in his hunched position,
hand still calmly outstretched, as though he were waiting for
something to happen. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted his hand
away, leaving the ring on the ground before him.

He looked exhausted, as though the act had taken great effort.
Gradually, he began to crawl backwards, away from the shining object.
His fingers were a third of a meter away from it, quivering, still
reaching out. A feint light of pathetic joy appeared in his eyes as he
continued to back away.

I began to look away again. "What...what is happening, Captain?"

There was no reply.

"Captain?" I said louder, looking around. Again there was silence.

Smeagol stopped. He paused, and the look of joy faded. His hand began
trembling, and the strained wheezing sounds escaping from his throat
grew louder. He was hesitant as he took another step back.

And almost instantly, his face twisted into a sickened, painful
cringe, and his eyes shimmered brightly in the sun as they flooded
with tears, tears that immediately spilled over his face. His lips
drew tight and quivered, and a long, strangled wail welled in his
throat, growing louder and louder until it finally burst through those
trembling lips and erupted into a horrible cry that pulled even my
stubborn legs a step closer.

Smeagol dropped his head, his wail sinking to a ragged, gasping end,
and collapsed into a miserable heap. He rested his head in his lap,
cradling it gently in his hands as he sobbed and coughed pitifully,
each breath like a knife plunging into my already broken heart.

Without a thought, my hand raised, bringing itself closer to the
figure before me, fingers twitching with caution as it edged towards
his shoulder...

And stopped.

What is wrong with you?

I forced myself to ignore the scolding in my head. It was becoming
hard to see Smeagol; my eyes were blurry with tears. My jaw began to
tremble lightly, as did my legs, and my ears buzzed painfully. But
still my hand remained hovering over his shoulder.

He is your friend! the scolding voice shouted, Your cousin! Not a
monster! Do not ignore his cries as well!

"I hate you," he whispered, letting another cry escape. "I hate you...I
hate you..."

For one awful moment, I had thought the statement had been meant for
me, and an injured expression filled my eyes. I began to move my hand
back.

"Smeeeeeagol..."

He purred his name eerily, suddenly recovered from his agony. I felt
myself go rigid at the sound of the voice. It was thin, almost hollow-
sounding, as though he were growling as he spoke. And it sounded
familiar...so familiar...

Another shudder, followed by a sob, and then he went still again.

"Why does it cry, Smeeeeeagol?" he purred again, taunting. "Is it
lonely? Does poor Smeagol weep to be so, so alone?"

He shrunk further into a ball, trembling once more.

"Go away!" he wept in his own voice. "This is all your fault!"

"All my fault?" the thin voice echoed, sounding amused. "We wasn't the
one who saw our only, our lovely in his hand. We wasn't the one who
killed its precious Deagol. Gollum! Gollum!"

A sharp spasm went up his back and he coughed loudly. I pulled my hand
back.

"Leave me alone! Leave me alone!" he wept.

"So ungrateful it is, love. What will it do without us now?"

"Leave us alone..."

"Where will it go, my Precious? Back home? No; nasty hobbitses hurt
it, they did. Still hurts, Precious? Yessss... Hobbitses threw Smeagol
out, they did. Drove it out, yes! Now it is lost! It can never go
home, Precious!"

He whimpered once, then continued his taunting.

"No home. No friends. You has nothing to go back to now!"

"GO AWAY!" he shrieked, lashing out violently at an unseen foe. I
leapt back, startled.

"Almost nothing," the purring voice continued. "There is still one
thing, Smeagol. What is the one thing we has left?"

He gasped suddenly, widening his eyes, and froze, not even breathing.

For the longest moment, he remained like this, then slowly he lowered his eyes.

"My..." he whispered, and paused. Then he cried out, "...PRECIOUS!"

Before I could even react, he sprang forward, scrambling madly towards
the ring, which sat at the base of the tree just where he'd left it.
He snatched it up in his pale fingers and fell once more.

He was laughing.

Nervously, almost crying still, but laughing none-the-less.

"Precious! Oh, my Precious! So sorry, we is, yes, yessss! My
only, oh my lovely, our Precious! Our Precious!"

I didn't say a word. I simply stepped away, walking past him,
and gazed out over the lake. The memories were gone. I looked at
those waters, sparkling with blue and green...and could not see
the peace and happiness that always drew me to this bank.

I turned back to Smeagol, who still lay by the tree, laughing and
crooning to his ring. This was not my cousin. Not anymore.

This was a monster.

I closed my eyes and lowered my head.

"Alright, Captain," I said quietly. "Let me go now."

I felt the warmth of the sun fade away, and opened my eyes to see the
white light surround me one last time.