I own nothing. Smeagol and Deagol belong to Tolkein, and I guess a little to Peter Jackson too. I'd like to say a special thanks to Joanne-saki for her review. I wouldn't keep updating this story as frequently as I do if I didn't know people were reading it. Thanks.

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What Dreams May Come

When I came to, I was on my back. The sky about me was unmoving, dim gold with swirls of dark purple and orange. The sun shown dully off to the left.

I dug my nails into the soil half-heartedly. I winced slightly and yanked at the earth, pulling out a handful of straw-grass and holding it up curiously.

Gathering my strength, I cringed and sat up stiffly. The field was huge; it
stretched on for what must have been miles. A small hill rose up
behind me. I was alone.

I was also growing frustrated. "Captain?" I asked.

No answer.

I looked around once more for him, then closed my eyes gloomily. I
didn't want to go anywhere. I was through with life. Through with the
memories.

I hung my head and sighed, then reluctantly stood up. After a moment,
I turned and made my way to the hill.

Starting up the slope, I began to wonder where I was. This field was
alien to me; there was nothing here I recognized. Nothing that would
draw my attention, at any rate.

I was nearing the top. There was an unusual smell in the air; a salty,
moist smell, terribly out of place in this deserted landscape.

On reaching the top, however, I found my puzzlement put to a final
rest.

There was a river. The tan grass continued on down, then suddenly
stopped and was replaced with lush green weeds. The two were divided
by a clean, straight line that ran along the base of the hill, as
though someone had gone and marked a boundary for them.

The river itself was another story. Brilliant blue water, running over
glimmering rocks, splashing up bright spray that glittered in the
dimming light. Great reed beds danced below the waters by the shore,
their rich green color showing through to the surface, tinted blue.

"It's an amazing view, isn't it?" a voice shouted. "I don't suppose
it's changed so much since I left it, though."

I jumped slightly at the sound, and only then did I notice the lone
figure standing on the bank.

He was an older hobbit, about fifty-five in age with a weathered face
and sand-colored hair just beginning to grey. His clothes were worn
and loose-fitting. He'd spent a lot of time outdoors, particularly by
the water, judging by the binds of cloth wrapped tightly around the
cuffs of his jacket and pants.

He looked up at me cheerfully, as though he was showing off this small
sanctuary and awaiting my response.

I made none. I had been struck speechless the moment I saw his face,
with his square jaw and wide nose and brown eyes, thoughtful deep
brown eyes that had immediately fixed on mine.

The hobbit shook his head amused and chuckled. "Come now, Deagol.
Don't act so surprised. Who else would you call 'Captain?'"

"...I didn't want to believe it at first," I managed to say.

"The Captain." He smiled proudly as he said the name. "One of your
most clever nicknames for me."

"All those boats," I said, partially to myself. "You were always off
somewhere in a boat. You loved them."

"Yes," he replied. "It's a shame that that little interest always
seems to skip a generation. Your grandfather thought I was crazy the
same way you did."

I gazed at him long and hard. "...Father?" I asked in the same tone one
might use when trying to say a newly-learned word.

He chuckled again. "The Captain himself, at your service!"

A huge smile, no doubt a foolish-looking one, suddenly split my face,
and I looked back at the river with amazement.

The smile faded, changing to a look of bewilderment.

"But...but that would mean..." I stammered, "that would mean..."

My father nodded, gazing up at me solemnly.

"You have now entered into the next world, Deagol."

"The next world?" I echoed flatly.

"The Afterlife, Deagol," he said. "The Afterlife."

* * *

"Easy there, boy," he chuckled, holding up his hands in a reassuring
gesture. "Just try to concentrate. Pretend it's the ground."

"Awfully wet ground," I uttered, staggering over the running water. I
stumbled, and immediately slid to the left, like someone had just
pulled a rug out from under me.

My father reached out to steady me, then carefully led me to a small
island of rocks.

"Stand here for a moment," he ordered patiently. I climbed up onto the
rocks, letting out a private sigh of relief.

"Now how do the rocks feel?" he asked.

"Wet," I said simply, stepping back as a wave slammed against the
stone beside me and sent up a spray of white foam.

"Yes. Cold too, aren't they?"

"Yes." I thought for a moment. "...Like the water."

He gave me a sideways look. "You seem to be doing pretty well walking
on them."

I nodded absent-mindedly. "The waves are less severe."

"Deagol, there's always going to be waves," he explained. "They do not
stop when you ask them to. You have to concentrate on your own; just
pretend you are on the rocks, and the waves are simply splashing."

I looked back at him curiously.

"On the rocks," I murmured, then nodded as I lowered myself from my
perch. Surprisingly, I did not fall, nor did I stumble. I stood
perfectly still, gazing down in astonishment as the waters ran under
me.

My father smiled, pleased.

"Come," he said, gesturing towards the opposite shore. "We're almost
there."

He continued on ahead, looking back at me over his shoulder. I
followed after a second of hesitation.

"Almost where?" I asked, running to catch up. "Where are you taking
me?"

He came to a stop suddenly, as did I on catching up. We were both
silent, staring fixedly up at the small structure ahead of us.

I walked past him, never looking away.

"...It's our house," I breathed.

"Yes." The Captain sounded solemn again. "...I was...uncomfortable when I
first came here. I was in a whole new environment; frightened, I'll
admit."

"So you made our home," I finished.

My father nodded. "As well as the river. I would always take my boat
out to the river. It was calm, for the most part. I went out to get
away from the others for a while; to be where no one could find me."

He turned to look back at the river. "I found this portion by
accident. There was a strong current that day. Dragged me all the way
down to the rapids. The boat was damaged; smashed against those
rocks.I'd broken my leg. Had to limp all the way home."

I smiled, despite myself. "And then you went out and got another
boat."

He nodded, his look becoming internal. "I'm starting to wish I
hadn't."

I lowered my eyes away from the house, then turned to meet eyes with
him.

"Four months," he said. "Four months and I would have been a father. I
took risks I shouldn't have. And they cost me."

"It wasn't your fault," I said, not knowing what else to tell my
father.

He looked down at the ground, then shook his head and went up to the
house.

"Let's go inside," he said in an easy tone. He walked past me. "You've
had a long day. You must be starving."

* * *

"Eat this."

I looked down at the slice of bread in his hand in the same manner I
might look at a coiled snake. I wasn't dreadfully hungry at the
moment, and I was tired. I wanted only to be left in peace so I could
make sense of the events I had seen unfold in the last few hours.

We were in the kitchen—our kitchen—, seated at the table and enjoying
a moment of peace between ourselves. Outside, the still-setting sun
shown through the window beside me, casting a dull gold light over the
room.

I continued to stare at the bread, as though expecting it to do
something, then looked up at my father.

He nudged the piece of food closer. "Eat it," he said again.

Reluctantly, I reached out and took the slice from his hand, but
instead of eating it, I simply stared down at it.

There was a long silence between both of us, then finally my father
spoke up.

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I haven't eaten since breakfast," I said, turning the bread in my
hands. "I should be starving."

I hesitated for a second, studying the bread once more. Then for no
reason at all, I brought it to my mouth and took a huge bite.

Almost instantly, the taste in my mouth became charred and bitter,
like I had just taken in a mouthful of ashes.

On spitting it out, I discovered that this was just the case.

For a moment, neither of us said anything. We both remained where we
sat, gazing down at the pile of ashes on the table in front of me.

I looked up suddenly. "...What does that mean?" I asked cautiously.

My father shook his head. "You're still not focusing. You have to
concentrate, Deagol. You have to imagine that this is all real."

"Imagine?" I said, puzzled. "But this is real. This whole place is
real. Isn't it?"

"Not necessarily," he explained. "This is only a version of our house.
The real one is on Middle Earth, as well as the real river. You are of
an entirely different world now, Deagol."

He looked across the room. "This house is little more than a memory; a
figment of the imagination." He met my eyes. "...But so are you, now
that you are no longer considered a living being."

I looked back down at the remaining half of the bread. I cocked my
head thoughtfully, looking at it sideways, then turned my attention to
a crack in the opposite wall.

Memories...

Slowly, I began to crumple the bread in my hand, imagining it was soft
and moist, molding together in my tightening grip...

I closed my fist and paused, concentrating. How did bread feel?

Soft and moist, I repeated over to myself. Soft and moist.

"Let it go, now," my father ordered.

I hesitated once more, then closing my eyes, I opened my hand. There
was another pause.

"Open your eyes, Deagol."

Just as hesitant as before, I opened them, and froze as I looked down
at the table.

There, beside the tiny pile of ash, sat a ball of bread, crumpled
almost into doe.

I looked up at my father anxiously.

He smiled, then raised his eyes from the table with a pleased look in
his eye. He reached into the cabinet beside him and pulled out another
piece.

"Here."

It was the best slice of bread I'd ever eaten.