What Dreams May Come

I looked up at the sky, an odd look of realization appearing on my face.

My father saw this. "What is it?"

"The sun," I said. "It hasn't moved at all since I came here."

I turned my gaze to him. "We've been in the house for hours."

"Yes," he said nonchalantly. "Several hours."

We were walking. The excitement of my steadying adjustment had run
high for the past three hours as I'd gone around the house "testing"
things, as one might say. Opening doors, sitting in chairs, lifting
mats from the floor to blow away the dust, simple things. The third
hour had ended with me looking through the cabinet and taking out a
dish. With my grace, or rather, the grace I was unfortunate in never
having gained, I had fumbled and dropped the dish on the stone floor.
Both of us were quite astonished—and bewildered, for my part—when it
hadn't shattered, nor even cracked on contact.

It was then that my father had decided to go for a walk.

"...But why hasn't the sun moved?" I asked, thinking on his words for a
moment. "...Doesn't time exist anymore either?"

"Oh, no," he said quickly. "It still exists. Time exists no matter
where you are. But it can pass at a different rate."

"The days are longer up here."

"Yes. About the length of three days, I suppose. But they're much
longer if you compare them to the time that passes on Middle Earth."

"And how long is that?" I asked, stopping.

"Seven years, approximately," he said indifferently. He turned towards
me, watching me, as though he were waiting for my reaction.

For a moment, he got none.

"Seven?" I asked him.

He nodded. "Seven."

I looked down thoughtfully, then suddenly raised my head.

"But...no no, that can't be right." I shook my head and looked away.

"What?" he pressed.

I hesitated, still thinking. "...Well, Beragol is seven years old. You
died right before he was born..." I shook my head again. "But...but that
would have to mean that you..."

My father grinned. "Yes, it's true, Deagol." He turned and looked up
at the sky. "I have only been here for a day, not counting the time
I've spent with you today. And Beragol's eight now, by the way," he
added.

I just stared.

He chuckled. "I told you: time passes at a slower rate up here. The
entire life of a hobbit can go by just like that!" He snapped his
fingers for emphasis. "One hundred years, gone in two weeks!"

We continued walking.

"That's incredible," I said, not sure of what else I could have used in its place.

"Yes it is. It's also incredible what changes can occur in time when
you're up here."

"What do you mean?"

"Here."

He pulled up his right sleeve, showing a pink-ish colored scar on his forearm.

"Do you recognize that?"

I squinted at the mark, then nodded. "You got that when I was ten. You
said you tore it on a fishing hook."

"I did," he said, rolling his sleeve back down. "It was pretty nasty-
looking. Bled something fierce. They said I was going to have that
scar for the rest of my life. They were right about that much, but
they never mentioned what would happen after. One day, and it's
already beginning to clear up."

I forced a small smile, then pulled my shirt collar down slightly,
exposing my neck. "What about these?"

My father studied the bruises. "Those'll take a while if they're
recent, which they are. Probably six months."

He stepped back, and I pulled my collar back into place.

We talked for a while, telling stories, laughing at jokes, enjoying a
long walk like we always would to block out the stress in our lives.
After what had only felt like a few minutes turned out to be hours, as
I had discovered from looking up in surprise to see the sun in a new
position in the sky.

Occasionally, we would spot a tree or a rock in the distance. We had
even come across the great Anduin falls themselves and sat by the
river, admiring the scene with tranquil delight. Aside from this,
though, there was nothing to see but fields.

Eventually, we had grown tired and headed back to the house, satisfied
with the excitement we had each seen for the day. I remembered the
feeling of relaxation that had filled me on seeing the low roof
looming up over the horizon. I was almost home.

That was when I'd spotted it.

The first thing to catch my eye was the color; a dull grey-white that
stood out distinctly from the dark tan ground. I would come to wonder
much later how I had missed seeing it before.

This was enough to make me stop, and I'd squinted at it curiously. I
recognized the shape, and a feeling of shock and disbelief overcame me
as I realized what it was.

I began to run towards it.

"Deagol? Deagol!"

I felt my father's hands clamp down on my shoulders and jerk me back.

"What is it?" he asked.

"It's the boat." I said, squirming out of his grasp. I started to run
forward again, but stopped myself. "It's the boat we were in!"

"The one you were fishing in?"

"Yes. The one I fell out of."

I looked back at him anxiously. "What's it doing here?"

"I should be asking you," he said. "You brought it here."

"I did?" I asked him in disbelief.

"Yes. Just as I brought our house and the river. You brought a boat."

"Just a boat?" I sounded skeptical. "Nothing else? I don't even like
boats, Father. You're the Captain, not me."

"Liking it," he said, "has nothing to do with the matter. It's here
because you feel strongly about it, whatever the feeling may be." He
looked thoughtful. "It's like your own addition to a larger picture."

"But it's just sitting there," I said, pondering the subject. "There's
no water, no river bank, no forest. The picture's all wrong."

"Do you think you can fix it?"

I blinked. "What?"

"Fix the picture," he explained. "You can finish 'painting' it. Add
water, possibly some trees."

"...And how do I do that?"

"Just concentrate," he said. "Think about the scene. Try to picture
yourself there."

I nodded and closed my eyes, forcing myself to conjure up the memories
I had banished from my mind only hours ago. Memories of fishing, of
sitting in the clearing, talking, waiting for a bite, a bite that
would never come, but still enjoying the calming swirls of blue and
green stretched out before me.

Memories of him.

What did he always say? Fishing never grew old. He always said we
would still be waiting for that bite, even in our old age.

I would always laugh or just smile, and continue to gaze at those
waters, those beautiful, sparkling waters... Those gleaming, shining
waters...

Shining so bright...shining so, so beautiful.

Like our ring. OUR ring; the ring we—the ring I found. It shown so
brilliantly in the sun, so stunning, so dazzling...the ring he stole
from us...

Curse him.

"Deagol?"

He stole it from us. It was ours, it was. It came to us! Our only, our
lovely, our—

"Son?"

My eyes snapped open suddenly. My father had sounded concerned.

"What is it?" I asked, confused for a moment.

"Are you alright? You look angry."

"I'm not angry."

"But you were getting ready to—"

"I'm not angry!"

He jumped slightly at my fiery response, and looked dejected. But then
his face grew curious, almost suspicious, and he looked back at the
house.

"Maybe we're rushing into all this," he said. "You've learned a good
deal already. It's late. We should go home."

With that, he turned and walked away.

After giving the small, lonely-looking boat a final glance, I
followed, feeling quite empty and dissatisfied with myself at that
moment.