Disclaimer: Deagol, Smeagol, the movie... not mine.

What Dreams May Come

The crack was small.

Squinting up through the darkness, I could barely see it against the ceiling. But it was there. Such a simple detail, hardly worth notice, and yet my father had recreated it perfectly. Thoughts of the crack in the kitchen wall came to me; there were cracks everywhere. I remembered our house was always in need of repair. There would always be a shingle that needed replaced, a floorboard that needed nailed back in place. The house was literally falling apart, and I could occasionally hear the sound of the walls chipping away beneath their own weight.

Every crack I'd seen on our walls was here now. Every loose and creaking floorboard. Outside, every withering and rusted shingle was in its exact position. My father had not missed a single detail.

I rolled over on my side, pulling the covers up higher over my shoulders.

My room looked just the way I remembered it. The walls were pebbly and rough, the wood never having been sanded. The floor beneath me was covered with stacks of papers. Across the room, the small round window sparkled with stars.

Beragol's bed was not in the room; my father had not lived to see it there.

From my position across the room, I gazed at the scene thoughtfully. Seeing it brought back more old memories of peace and relaxation; simple memories.

Beragol would always wake me in the middle of the night when he was younger, sometimes talking across the room from beneath his covers, other times coming up to stand by my bed, looking down at me with the round, sad- looking eyes of a four-year-old.

I would always lift my head and squint at him through a haze of half- slumber, then ask what he wanted. He would say he couldn't sleep, or that he'd had a bad dream. He always seemed to be having bad dreams.

"It was just a dream, Beragol," I always said. "And you know dreams—"

"Aren't real?" he would finish.

I nodded, satisfied that he understood, but still stayed up with him for a little while. I would sit with him on the floor by my bed with an arm around him, allowing him to snuggle closer. He would always bring his old hand-me-down teddy bear with him. Booka, I think he called it. I would often find myself wondering what I used to call it when I was his age.

Back in the empty room, I smiled to myself, remembering those moments like they had only happened days ago. I paused, gazing across the room, then decided I was never going to get any sleep and climbed out of bed. I made my way across the room, stumbling slightly over my papers, and came to a stop beside the empty wall.

I stared at that wall for ten minutes, thinking nothing, feeling nothing. Eventually, I had come around, snapped out of my trance, and frowned at the empty space. I looked over my shoulder, into the corner.

On top of a pile of maps, there sat a rough-looking drawing of a bullfrog.

My eyes strayed to the doorway. It was dark, almost completely hidden in shadows.

Hidden in shadows.

I didn't dare move. My gaze was locked onto that spot, and I began to feel the all-too-familiar buzzing behind my ears. Someone was there.

On pure impulse, I sprang forward, eyes flaring with threat. I was almost certain, though possibly hallucinating, that there was a jump in response from the hallway. Again, I went forward, leaning out the door.

But there was no one.

Furrowing my brow, I stepped out of my room. I stood silently for a moment longer, then walked down the hallway and into the kitchen. I gave the room a wary glance, hesitating, going rigid. The hairs on my neck stood on end. My hands were clenched into fists.

I went over to the cabinet, opening it to retrieve a dish—the same one I had dropped late that afternoon.

The creak of a floorboard; my eyes darted to the left. Nothing there. Nobody watching. Back to the dish.

"I just miss him so much. What's going to happen to him? Where will he go?"

The words played out in my head as clearly as though they'd been spoken.

"He'll go...where we all go. Somewhere better."

"Where is that?"

"I don't know. But he's happy now, Beragol. You have to understand that. There's no need to be sad."

I turned the dish in my hands, running a finger along its smooth surface.

"He wouldn't want you to be."

I cocked my head slightly, studying the dish with a sideways look. It was almost perfectly round. It felt hard, like a real one.

"Do you miss Deagol too, Smeagol?"

"...Yes."

Half-expecting someone to be there, my eyes glanced back down the hallway before returning to the dish.

There was a crack on the edge.

I felt it carefully, tried to insert my fingernail into the gap. I couldn't.

The crack was definitely big enough, but I couldn't bring myself to touch it. My finger would always inch away as it neared the edge of the dish.

Yes, he'd said.

The word echoed over and over again in my head. Yes. Yes. Yes.

I took the dish in both hands once more.

It was the way he'd said it that made he think. It had sounded so...strong. So final, like he had been dreading the question that had been asked to him, and wanted to change the subject immediately.

And there was something else in his voice. A solemn, almost sad tone that he couldn't quite hide.

And anger. He'd sounded angry as he'd spoken, though at what, I wasn't sure.

Yes.

More voices.

"What is he doing here?"

My voice.

"Your mother needs the help around the house. He agreed to stay for a few days."

"Of course. Who better to help her than the one who killed her son?"

I reached into the crack with my fingernail as far as I could. My hands tightened around the edge of the dish.

I thought of the boat outside. It sat alone in that empty field, not in the lake where it should have been. It was surrounded by old, tan grass, not the dark trees. The picture was wrong, and needed to be made right again.

"What has he told her?"

"Nothing. At least not the truth."

My blood ran cold.

Nothing...At least not the truth.

"Go away! This is all your fault!"

"All my fault?"

A chill went up my spine at the sound of the voice.

"We wasn't the one who saw our only, our lovely in his hand. We wasn't the one who killed its precious Deagol."

Then he let out a sickening cough that echoed through the room, fading away slowly into the night.

The dish fell from my hands, falling silently towards the floor below me.

And, with a sudden, loud crash, it shattered into pieces.

* * *

Even before dawn had broken, I'd changed back into my old, wrinkled clothes and left the house, setting out into the field. Out to the boat.

The sun was just beginning to rise, a thin band of blinding gold peeking over the horizon, when I'd spotted it in that empty sea of grass. For a second, I had paused, wondering why it had been a boat, and not my old fishing pole or tackle box. If liking something didn't determine what you brought with you, then what did? Perhaps I'd brought the tiny boat with me simply because falling out of it was the first memory of the incident to come to my mind, even before the ring...

I pushed the thought aside and focused on the boat; concentrated on the picture. Had to fix the picture.

But how? What could I think of to help concentrate? The most obvious answer was the water, but the thought of those bright, gleaming waters would always turn my focus to that horrid ring.

Not horrid, a voice would always say, Nice. Is nice ring.

And that would always lead to thoughts of fighting. Fighting HIM for the nice ring. "Him", I called him now. HE was the problem, the reason I couldn't concentrate. It was HIS fault I was in this dilemma. It was HIS fault I was even dead to begin with.

I closed my eyes, tried to focus on something else. Something besides sight. Focus on the feel of the lake. The cool grass, soft and scratchy beneath my feet. The wind, blowing through the trees behind me.

The sounds. The birds calling, bullfrogs croaking, the trees rustling in the wind. The water rippling quietly beyond me, filled with fish swimming lazily beneath the surface.

The musty smell of grass, mixed with the soft, airy scent of the water...

Minutes passed, and I focused every thought, every ounce of strength, on this one image. I clenched my eyes tighter, struggling to hold onto the mental picture I had drawn. My arms, extended forward and stiffened, began trembling. Droplets of sweat began forming on my forehead and palms. My head ached horribly. But I didn't stop. I couldn't. Somewhere in the back of my mind, almost hidden in all the building strain of my present task, the tiny scolding voice continued to fight back.

Don't stop now, it would say. You can't stop now, when you are so close to achieving your goal. Think! Feel!

My heart was pounding. Every beat echoed through me, sending a sharp tremor up my spine and out through my arms. My legs shook forcefully. My head hummed agonizingly.

Don't stop now!

A flash of light! The blinding glare of the sun reflecting off the waters, showing as bright as though I were looking upon it with open eyes. It flashed again, just as suddenly; shown just as brightly. Then, just as my eyes were beginning to adjust to the blinding image, it flashed once more, even more powerful than both times before.

My legs gave way like twigs, and I collapsed, falling to my knees in the grass. My head rested on the ground before me, waiting for the dizzy feeling to pass.

I clenched my fingers in the grass absent-mindedly, trying to focus on the mental image once more. Couldn't stop now! Couldn't—

The grass. I clenched my fingers again.

It felt different, not at all like the dead, dry blades I had already come accustomed to feeling. It felt...soft.

I opened my eyes.

The sight of green-blue weeds filled my gaze. I sat up, shocked, and ran my fingers over the blades. I was utterly speechless.

Slowly, I pulled out a handful of the green vegetation, bringing it close to my face as I stood. It smelled like grass, dusty and moist. It crumpled as I closed my fist; didn't crack or crumble like the dry grass. My eyes strayed up, away from my hand to the scene beyond...

I could feel my heart skip a beat.

The water was gleaming. Swirling and rippling silently, reflecting the soft glow of the risen sun, now peeking up over the thick surrounding of trees.

And in the center of the lake, bobbing lightly, almost happily, was the boat.

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(Again, a difficult chapter to write. I liked the concept, but was having trouble writing it out. The next chapter will be much shorter, and will be up much sooner, but again: I NEED more reviews! Constructive criticism is welcome, as well as comments and questions. Please give me your opinion.)