WHAT DREAMS MAY COME
(Back to Deagol's POV now)
It had been almost two weeks since I'd first entered the Afterlife, though according to the rules of time, several years had passed on Middle Earth.
The confusion and frustration of my slow transition were both long-gone, and for the first time in what felt like ages, I could actually lay back on my bed and let out a long sigh of relief. I was finally home.
I spent a lot of my time at home, but on a few rare occasions, I would go down to the clearing and stretch out on the soft grass, taking in the warmth of the sun.
Fishing, though, was little more than a passing memory. I had lost interest in it, though I couldn't determine why. Also, seeing as how I had no gear or bait, I would have been unable to catch anything anyway.
The rest of my time was spent at the Plaza, sitting on the steps and watching the other creatures of long ago carry on happily with their simple lives, so to speak.
The Plaza.
My father had shown it to me the day after my arrival, as a way of congratulating me on my achievement, or so I told myself. A tiny part of me felt, possibly knew, that it was really to take my mind off of the creature. I chose not to bring it up with him again, deciding it had been from a long-forgotten dream, or possibly a silly little story that Old Austo Footrunner would always tell me and the other young hobbit children.
But whatever the reason was that the Captain had done it, I was grateful he did. The Plaza was teeming with life, its vast courts and wide, open-aired stairways and glowing golden-green waters all but overflowing with civilians, walking about, talking amongst themselves, or sitting and resting. They hadn't a care in the world.
Several of them were men, the Big Folk, as we had often called them, tall, clumsy and awkward-looking as they usually were. But there were other men, sturdy, strong men whose presence seemed to fill the minds and very souls of those around them, giving them a rather respectable berth. There were proud, almost elegant men, seeming more like elves in their un-earthly grace and prowess than true men.
But there were real elves as well, though their numbers were much fewer. There was an eerie glow about them all, and I soon learned to spot them from several meters away. They were silent for the most part, usually keeping to themselves. Occasionally, I would spot one having a word with an associate, but little more than this. My father had explained later to me that it was wise to give them a rather wide space; they were not fully accustomed to their new surroundings, seeing as how they were an immortal race. They could not, or probably refused to accept their fates.
And then of course, we saw dwarves, as well as a good number of hobbits, along with a vast number of races that even my father, the fanciful outdoorsman that he was, could not name.
I was amazed at the site of it all, and any thoughts of loneliness or question disappeared instantly on seeing it.
For one week, this was how things went on. Long days of sitting, thinking, looking out over my lake, over the steps and courts of the Plaza, knowing something was missing, but not knowing what it was.
And then she came.
My father had left early one afternoon, saying that he had "business to attend to elsewhere." I hadn't thought much on it, seeing as how he was always off doing other things, and spent the day at the Plaza, watching the tiny boats sailing along the calm waters. Later that afternoon, I found myself standing at the edge of the marble walkway, trying to convince myself to get into a small wooden rowboat, the key word being "trying." Evidently, my dislike of boats had not died away at all with my love of fishing.
"I suppose some things just never change," a voice had said from behind me.
The first thing I thought was how familiar the voice, a hobbit woman's, sounded, and how odd it was that she knew about my age-old dilemma. I turned to speak to her and immediately froze. Suddenly, I was unable to speak.
She was older. Much, much older than she had been the last time I'd seen her. Gone were the dark curls, replaced by grey and white tufts of hair that framed her face like a halo. Her eyes were darker; wearied from years of pain and great loss. Her face was worn, weathered away by heavy hardship. The youthful, wise, somewhat pretty individual I had known growing up was all but a memory.
But I knew instantly, even as I'd looked into her weary and darkened eyes, unfamiliar eyes, that she was my mother.
I'd said something, but I can't recall what. I probably asked if it was really her. Then I was wrapped in a massive embrace that reduced my image of the Plaza to a golden blur around us.
She was back.
And so another week had come and gone, much faster than the first. Never before had I seen my mother so happy. Finally, she had been reunited with her husband and son, both of whom she had missed dreadfully. For her, the pain was over. We were all together now.
But still there was someone missing.
I'd asked my father if I could go with him, but he'd no. I still wasn't ready to cross over into the Old World. And so I was left to stand beside the front door, fidgeting uncontrollably.
My mother smiled. "Look at you. You're still nervous about him."
"I know," I said sheepishly. I stared down at my feet. "I just keep wondering what he'll be like. He was a child the last time I saw him. I'll never recognize him now."
She looked at me from the side. "You sound just like you did before he was born. Always worrying what it would be like, always wondering if you would be good enough for him."
"I was the closest thing he would have to a father. It was a big part to fill."
"You filled it well," she said softly. "You know that."
I turned to look her straight in the eye. "Do I?" I said stiffly.
Neither of us said anything for a long time. She hadn't expected such a response from me, and wasn't sure how to respond. Never had I spoken so openly to my mother about my feelings towards Beragol, even though she knew well that I lacked confidence in myself. But time had changed me, made me more blunt and less cautious. Just the same, I felt guilty for acting the way I did just then.
"I'm sorry," I said, looking out at the horizon over the hill. "It's just so much to take in."
I looked down suddenly. "I mean, it's just odd. I never thought I'd be overjoyed to hear that my brother died."
My mother didn't look at me when she spoke. "Yes," she agreed flatly. "It's very odd."
……………………………..
Even though forty-nine years had changed my mother since the last time I'd seen her, I was still able to recognize her. She hadn't grown or shrunk, widened or slimmed; only aged. Her hair had turned lighter, and her face had grown wrinkles, but she essentially looked the same to me.
When my father appeared over the horizon with another old, gray hobbit man in toe, I almost refused to believe that it was Beragol.
Gone was the little seven-year-old I'd left behind, now replaced by a weathered old man with dark gray, almost lifeless curls and a wrinkled forehead. His eyes were no longer bright and cheerful, no longer optimistic and naïve from youth. Now they were gray as well, though they'd grown sharper with his grown attitude, and had been made all the more stronger from having to support his bushy, silvery eyebrows.
Looking at his face, I never would have believed that he was in any way related to me, but when I spotted the floppy gray fishing hat slumped on his head, my doubts were drowned away. He was wearing my hat, the very same hat I'd been wearing the day…
It was Beragol. It was my brother.
"You haven't changed a bit!" he shouted with excitement after we'd been reintroduced and our parents had left us to ourselves. We were sitting together on the front porch of our house, trying to remember the old times when we used to sit there every day.
"Wish I could say the same about you, little brother!" I laughed back. "You've gotta be at least seventy years older than me now!"
"A hundred and four!" he said proudly, sitting up straight with a twinkle in his eye. "I took pretty good care of myself."
I smiled and picked up the fishing hat from the step below us. "This is mine, isn't it?" I asked him wittily. "Look how ratty it's gotten! Doesn't look like you took as good a care of it!"
"It's been through its fair share of excitement!" he laughed.
I shook my head in thought, turning it slowly in my hands. "I thought I lost it that day at the lake. Someone must've found it."
Suddenly, the twinkle left Beragol's eyes, replaced by the sharpness that I'd never gotten to watch him first adopt. He studied my face for a second before he spoke. "You don't…happen to know what happened to him, do you?"
I knew who he meant by "him."
I shook my head. "No. What happened?"
Beragol never broke his eye contact. "Well, I don't know what happened to him throughout the rest of his life. Last I remember of him was when they banished him."
I raised my eyebrows in an unsurprised gesture. "Well, that I did see more or less. You know? I saw him alone… Heard him mumble something about it…"
"That was all?" Beragol asked, sounding strangely disappointed.
"Yes." I looked at him oddly. "…Why?"
"Well you missed the good part," he went on. "It was about two weeks after it happened, with you… I was in the kitchen with Mum, and he came up to her and asked to see her in the other room, alone. So she followed him in, I stayed in the kitchen. 'Bout ten minutes later, I heard her screaming at him, calling him a liar and what not." He sent me a sideward, disgusted glance. "A murderer. A lousy wretch who killed her son.."
A knot started to form in my stomach at the tale. How had I missed this before I'd gone away completely?
Beragol turned his eyes away from me and went on. "Naturally, that got my attention, so I went into the next room to see them. Got there just in time to see her knock the piece of filth off his feet. She was kicking him and screaming and crying…for I don't know how long. Then he finally got up on all fours and crawled away from her, past me. Then she ran after him, chased him right out of the house. And I was too scared to follow them outside, so I watched it through the window." Anger began to grip his features as he continued.
"He was lying on the ground out there, crying about how it wasn't his fault and it was an accident and he didn't know how it happened. Said he didn't know why he did it, either. And he stuck to that pack of lies.
"Of course, by then the whole neighborhood had heard what was going on and they all came out of their houses. A minute later, they were all at it too. All of them. All kicking and stomping and punching and throwing things at him, all screaming…and in the end, they ran him right out of town."
He said this last part with what sounded like nothing short of sadistic satisfaction. I felt a tingle run up my spine as I stared at the old, bitter hobbit who had once been my innocent little brother. Life had dealt him a hard lesson much too early, and he hadn't dealt well with it at all. I had dealt him a hard lesson…
I blinked suddenly as I gave the story a deeper thought. "Wait. …Smeagol confessed to it?"
Beragol lowered his eyes then, but not his head. "He certainly did. And a couple days after he was chased off, Mum told me what he'd said. He strangled you didn't he? Yeah, he wasn't lying, then. Said it was all over something you found at the lake. A piece of gold or something just as stupid. Nothing worth killing anyone for." He looked at me again. "Was it for something like that?"
The ring.
I shuddered inwardly at the thought of it. That ring. That tiny little trinket that I'd seen glittering in the water. The same trinket that I'd fought over with Smeagol, the trinket that he'd killed me for.
But then another memory from that day suddenly flashed into my mind, another memory of my last moments alive.
Anger.
I remembered that look, that glare that Smeagol had sent me before he killed me. Anger. The look of anger…as I began strangling him.
The knot in my stomach wrenched even tighter, and I had to fight every effort in my sick body to keep from doubling over at this horrific realization.
I'd tried to strangle him first…
I nodded, finally answering Beragol's question. "Yes," I forced out.
He turned his gaze away again, misreading the pain on my expression.
"But you know what made me the angriest?" he asked. "The night before that piece of filth said what he'd done, he was telling me all about how much he missed you and… how I shouldn't be worried about you dying…"
He ran his fingers through his hair jadedly. "…It was all a lie…"
I felt like I'd been run through with a lance.
That night in Beragol's room. That night that Smeagol had come in and comforted him. That night that I was watching them, unheard and unseen. Beragol remembered that night as well, just as clearly as I did. But he hadn't seen everything.
I had seen the horrified look on Smeagol's face when my little brother wrapped his arms around him, sobbing, and I'd seen that troubled, sickly look in his weary eyes as he returned the gesture. And I'd seen him sobbing alone in the dark with nothing but my old teddy bear to keep him together.
My head was spinning. Smeagol hadn't been discovered like I'd assumed. He'd truly been sorry. He'd seen all the pain he had caused my family, and he'd confessed his crime to them, only to be beaten and cast out from the village where he'd lived his life.
And he'd crawled all the way to our clearing by the lake, the only other place that he'd ever called home, to try and rid himself of that horrible trinket that had somehow, in some way brought him to do this terrible thing. The same terrible thing that I had almost done to him. And he couldn't bring himself to, because it was the only thing he had left to cling to in his destroyed life. I didn't need to see the scene Beragol had described to me; I'd seen and heard enough to realize this on my own. So why hadn't I?
It was this haunting question that kept me awake that entire night, screaming and kicking at me with a strength that my entire village could only imagine.
