Chapter 3: When All Is Lost
It was cold. He was cold; he knew it, but he did not feel it. The chill from the ground seeped into his body and into his bones, but it seemed a distant feeling. He found it hard to breathe but could not remember why. He hurt. He hurt, but that was a distant feeling as well, and he thought perhaps if he closed his eyes hard enough, the hurt and cold might go away entirely and he would wake to find himself warm and hale and whole once more. He would be returned to the existence he knew.
He shivered and closed his eyes and remembered the world that had once held him in its arms.
"Listen," she would say, "I will tell you of ages long past..." and they would gather at her feet, her children and her grand-children, and she would tell them of a time when the world was made new and the light of the stars was young, when evil had not yet awakened, when there was no shadow upon the land. They would listen with rapt attention, though they knew her stories, knew them by rote, knew every word and every rhythmic turn of her voice that was the very rhythm of their life. She passed their history to them in this manner, as the Elders had to her, as her children would to theirs, and on throughout the ages as was the way ere the written word came to be. Their stories were woven from threads of the past and the present, serving to preserve what had been and to remind them of who they were. Their legends became their lives, their lives became their legends, and all were a part of a timeless sea of events that would stretch on long after they themselves had ceased to live, and yet they would not be forgotten by those who came after. Thus they gathered at her feet and listened and they knew their place in this family, knew their place in the world.
And for them, the world was this corner of the Wilderlands, a bit of country made up of marshes and grassy plains near the Great River, vague and rather unremarkable other than that it was near the shallow crossings over which the Tall Men and Fair Folk often passed on their way to other places. The dark forest grew fast and wild to the east of them and the mountains stood strong and vigilant to the west, but as the blood flowed in the veins of these hill-people, so did the sound of running water in their hearts; they strayed never far from the strong stream that linked mountain to sea. They made their homes within sight of the rocky shoals and swiftly flowing River.
Small they were and sturdy, and their hands and feet were overlarge and delightfully proper for swimming. Most were olive-skinned and dark-haired, and their eyes were light and bright and curious. Their homes they made in the low hills, burrows delved into the earth itself that, in truth, appeared to be only grassy mounds until one wandered near enough to see the round openings and the hides covering the entrances. Inside the clusters of these burrows dwelt the extended families of the matriarchs, and their children were reared by the many rather than few, and all were ruled by the wisdom of the elders of the clan.
It was among this small group of rustic River-dwellers that a son named Sméagol was loved and raised.
His clan was the largest in the village and the most highly regarded. His grandmother was the eldest of their people and considered by many to be the wisest, and more than a few even from outside clans would come to her to beg advice or learn from her stories. She was revered by her family; to Sméagol she was omnipotent and he was ever in awe of her. He was one of the youngest of the clan and as such was doted upon by all of them, but especially by her. As a child he would often sit at his grandmother's feet and listen to her speak her wisdom. She would pick him up and cradle him and peer at him with clever eyes. She would tease him with conundrums and fill his mind with tales of beginnings and memories of long ago.
He was a bright, pretty child with an inquisitive nature, and the elders smiled when he asked questions and more questions, never satisfied with what they gave him. He wanted to know why the rain fell, who created the mountains, and where the River began. His grandmother would answer as best she could and play games with him and tell him stories, yet still he was unsatisfied.
"...I touch your face... I'm in your words... I'm lack of space and loved by birds. Grandmother, what? What is it? Is it air? It is! The answer is air. Too easy, Grandmother. A chestnut that was, and too easy," he scowled, and then brightened again. "Grandmother, how do birds stay in the air? Why do we not have feathers? I would much rather have feathers than hair, I think, and how come..."
"Sméagol, you will wear yourself thin," she would chide him gently. "You are as headstrong as the Tall Men, and as curious as the Fair Folk. I think you are not one of us at all, but a changeling child left in your mother's arms as she slept. You have much life to live yet, and time enough to answer the questions you have for yourself, little mouse."
"I wish to know things," Sméagol would say, and his small face would screw itself up with frustrated longing. "I wish to know about everything."
"And when you knew everything, what then would you do? Even the wise do not know all there is to know."
Sméagol spent much of his young life searching for the answers to his questions and exploring every inch of the Wilderlands that was within his reach. Often he was alone, but sometimes he would have company on his expeditions in the person of his younger cousin, the son of his father's sister, a slender and light-hearted child named Déagol, who looked up to Sméagol and followed him wherever he went. Sméagol had little patience to spare his cousin for a long time, but as Déagol became older, he was less a nuisance. It came to be that friendship grew between them, and Sméagol went nowhere without Déagol, and missed him when he was not there. Déagol had a curiosity to match Sméagol's and was always willing to follow upon a trek to the edges of the dark forest or a trip down the River in search of a fishing-hole. They would return home bearing the treasure of their day: a string of shimmery, silvery trout, mushrooms gathered from beneath the shady hollows beneath the trees to the East, or horseshoes and bits of leather or silk left by the travellers whose feet brought them along paths crossing the Great River and close to the homes of the small hill-people.
And often travellers did come, and the hill-people would hear the approach of horses and hear the sounds of strange voices speaking in words they did not understand. If the company that approached was large they would remain hidden and let them pass, but the presence of the hill-people was not unknown to those whose business or pleasure took them often to and from the mountains, across the Great River. Those who knew where to look would find the hill-people there, and often Tall Men or factions of the Fair Folk would spare a few moments from what deeds called them hither from their homes. They would come to speak with the small creatures, to trade for food or hides, or simply just to see these strange beings and marvel at them. A few of the village's elders had taught themselves to speak sparing words in the tongues of the travellers who passed and so could communicate with them, if only in the most basic of ways.
When groups of these strangers arrived and their elders were certain it was safe, the children were allowed to go and see them. Sméagol and Déagol, intrepid scholars that they were, never missed an opportunity to get near the visitors and learn all they could from what they bore with them, what clothing they wore, and from the bright weapons at their sides that would flash in the sunlight and capture their young eyes.
Déagol loved the Fair Folk of the Forests best. They were common souls. Sméagol's small cousin delighted in all things growing and green, and liked nothing more than to run happily back to their grandmother with an armful of bright flowers gathered fresh from spring soil. If left to his own devices he would sit for hours on end in a patch of sunlight by the riverbank and listen to the breeze blow through the reeds or watch the lilies nod and bow their heads until Sméagol was sent out to fetch him and bring him back for supper.
The Fair Folk quite astonished Déagol, though he would never dare approach them when they came to visit their village. He confided in Sméagol that he thought them to be magic, like the magic of the stars up in the sky or the magic of his father's lucky fishing pole that never failed to catch at least a half a dozen fish when he took it to the River with him. Déagol was forbidden to play with his father's fishing pole lest he should break it and ruin the magic, and in his child's mind was a like fear of coming too near the Fair Folk; he dared not approach them, worried that he might disturb the magic and they would vanish and never come back. But always would Déagol linger wistfully nearby, and he would follow their movements with shining eyes and flush to the roots of his curly dark hair if one of them smiled at him. When the Fair Folk sang, as they often did when they first arrived or bid their farewells, Déagol would cease to stir, cease to breathe until the last note trailed off in the air.
Sméagol was fascinated by the Fair Folk as well, but more captivating to him were the rare visits from those they called the Mountain Fathers, who were shorter than the Tall Men and did not sing as the Fair Folk sang. They had fierce eyes hardly to be seen beneath bristling braids and beards. These warriors could be heard approaching from a great distance and often they plunged through the River and on without stopping, having no time to tarry, on their way to tending important matters. Only twice had they paused to speak with the hill-people during Sméagol's lifetime and the visits had been brief. Their voices were deep, deep as the roots of the earth. As Déagol loved the beauty of leaves and flowers, Sméagol was interested in what lay beneath, where all things began. The Mountain Fathers seemed made from stone, and Sméagol's grandmother said that was where they lived, deep under the ground. Sméagol had thought that perhaps they could answer his questions and tell him the secrets of the deepest places in the world, but he did not speak the thundering language of the Mountain Fathers, and he lacked the courage to draw near. He would stand by to watch them in their shining silver coats, to gaze with longing at the gems that glittered at their throats and dripped from their hands, and he would shiver a little at the sight of the wicked axes they bore. They never stayed long, and Sméagol would be left to wonder what kind of villages they made and what it would be like to live inside a mountain, and whether they had cousins to play with and grandmothers to tell them stories.
When the travellers were gone, Sméagol and Déagol would run off to spend their time by the river. Déagol would mimic the Fair Folk and try to walk delicately across the rocks to the other side without teetering off, and Sméagol would sit by the water's edge and sift through the pebbles and sand and gather pretty stones and polish them with his shirt until they gleamed almost as brightly as those the Mountain Fathers kept.
And so they grew, Sméagol and Déagol, and they were almost always together. Déagol remained the slighter of the two, but he was quicker than Sméagol and more adept at catching fish. Sméagol was stronger and could climb the trees in the dark forest with more skill and they would often enjoy the treat of eggs scavenged from unguarded nests. They wandered together over plain and marsh and creek bed, scouting out new territory ever in their eagerness to see what might lie over the next hill, and there was no stone unturned by their small hands.
Seasons passed and the summer that far gone year was particularly hot and humid. The small hill-people spent much of their time at the water's edge as it was, but now the only respite from the overeager Sun was the cool River and they flocked to it. They would take their meals upon the rocks along the banks and would weave small rafts of reeds and weeds to paddle in the deep pools and sleep away the warmest hours of the days.
Déagol woke his cousin early one morning with a cheery trill from outside the entrance of the burrow; he met Sméagol down the path with two newly-crafted fishing poles, a basket of food, and a grin that stretched from one edge of his good-natured face to the other. "Happy birthday, coz!" he whispered, and while no one else was about, the two were off on their own. "Another year! Soon you will be too old for fun!" Déagol teased and taunted Sméagol, standing upon the tip of his toes to match the height of his taller cousin. He squinted close to see if perhaps Sméagol had the traces of a beard as the Mountain Fathers wore, and generally behaved as younger cousins will until Sméagol pushed him headlong into a bramble bush.
Laughing, they trod quietly past doors and windows so as to wake no one ere they could be off. The two made their way down to the River and stole a reed raft left unattended there. This would prove to be another hot day if the sky were any indication, and they wished to be far from the village and free of responsibility, to leave behind the sticky warm confinement of home and family.
Looking back upon that morning, Sméagol would have given anything, everything to have stayed behind.
They paddled far, letting the current take them. Déagol wished to stop at midmorning to eat a little and to scout the land upon the west bank, but Sméagol wanted to see something new; it was his birthday, after all, and he was feeling adventurous. They journeyed on past familiar stopping points, passing them by, passing them by for what might lie beyond the next bend in the River, further than they had ever dared before. If one felt any misgivings about being so far from home, he certainly did not share that feeling with the other; they were brave wanderers and someday they would travel to see the mountains and explore the forests.
This particular adventure, however, was proving uneventful. They ate their lunch and watched the shore skim past them and plunged into the cool water when the Sun beat too hot upon their backs. There was little more to find here than back home and they became bored. They were dozing, in fact, side by side when the raft suddenly surged beneath them and flew past a point where the Great River mingled with another great stream that flowed cold from the mountains in the west.
The swiftness of the rapids took their breath and they felt their tiny raft of reeds creak and shift beneath them. They held on as the Great River swallowed the other smaller river and flowed on, stronger now, louder and wider, splashing over sand and gravel. It narrowed and slid over an incline of smooth stones. With a whirl and a dizzying rush it dumped them over the edge and into a large deep pool. The water eddied and swirled in lazy circles ere carrying its way on down the River's path. It was almost as still as a lake there, but try as they might, they could not see the bottom. The sunlight glinted upon the edges of the light current. Upon one shore were fens and marshes fed by underground springs and upon the other was sparse brush and tangled trees whose shadows dappled the pool and branches blocked the view of the fields beyond.
Déagol blinked and stared with large, eager blue eyes at this most perfect of fishing-holes fortune had found for them, and he gave a joyous whoop.
They spent the afternoon fishing and swimming; Déagol pulled in fish after fat fish even during these hottest hours of the day, shouting with glee each time his pole strained and dipped into the water. Sméagol paddled about the pool lazily, ignoring Déagol's admonishments that he was scaring away the trout.
Cool air came up from the River and warm air beat upon his skin from above; Sméagol closed his eyes and let the River lift him, feeling so light, so weightless. His ears were filled with the sound of splashing water, the call of birds along the shore, his cousin's lively voice, and the hum of dragonflies that darted through the air and hovered near. He thought there could be no place in the world so wonderful. This was a good birthday.
The dragonflies buzzed closer and Sméagol flicked his hand over his head to shoo them away. The sound persisted and did not waver.
It was too steady to be dragonfly wings.
It was a droning buzz... a droning that grew stronger... and more pronounced until strangeness of it penetrated his other thoughts. Too loud was this sound that was not dragonflies, and now it was a persistent hum that grew and grew. Sméagol ducked his head beneath the water, but still he could hear it. Almost it seemed...
Almost it seemed there were words.
... it wasss hot when I firssst took... ... with this sssshall I ... throw it, throw it away... .. ... many sssseek it and I will not... ... lest it fade beyond recall...
Sméagol was wrenched from his drowsiness and he spluttered as the water closed over his nose and mouth. His body surged upward and he looked about him with a bewildered expression. He glanced at Déagol.
His cousin had not seemed to notice anything strange. Déagol was lying upon his belly at the edge of the raft, fishing-pole clenched tightly in his hand, willing the fish to bite.
Sméagol blinked. Perhaps he had been in the water too long. He swam away and pulled himself slowly to shore. He sat upon the sand, letting the Sun's rays dry his skin. He scrubbed a hand through his wet hair and he stared apprehensively into the brush with the uneasy feeling that he was being watched.
The sound that was not dragonflies buzzed again louder in his ears and a deep voice spoke.
...I doubt... if I shall ever be freee of the pain of it... ssso near... is unknown to me... so Gil-galad wasss destroyed... .. I will rissk no... it is precioussss to me...
Sméagol gave a cry and pawed at the air. Déagol lifted his head, laughing at the sight. He soon quieted, noting Sméagol's pale face. Déagol made to speak, to ask what was wrong, but he was not given the chance.
Sméagol watched in horror as Déagol's head whipped back. His young cousin grasped his pole with both hands as something tugged at the line, something larger than any fish. Then with a shout and a splash, Déagol and his fishing-pole disappeared off the edge of the small raft.
Sméagol screamed Déagol's name and dove into the River, but the constant, slow movement of the stream roused the soil beneath so that nothing could be seen below the surface. He dove over and over, swiping his arms about him in the murky water, and returning time and again to the top with a gasp and handfuls of naught but mud and weeds. He cast about, searching for any sign of Déagol; there was none. The sunny pool no longer seemed to reflect the sunlight but absorbed it. The black surface was flat and menacing, broken only by the current that circled as if the water was being stirred by gigantic invisible fingers. The trickle of the stream that fed the dark pool now seemed to roar in Sméagol's ears; the River was an overpowering and uncaring thing that did not care if it took his cousin from him. He swam to the lonely raft in the center of the pool and dragged himself on to it, weeping.
... in the darkness... where ... ... shadows lie...
As Sméagol's hope failed and he despaired, Déagol emerged no more than a few feet from the raft, arms flailing, choking for air. Sméagol wiped his eyes and reached for his friend, yanking him onto the raft with a strength that belied his small body. He clasped a trembling Déagol to him, and his cousin held onto him as if he would never let him go.
"Déagol... Déagol, what was it?"
His cousin lacked the breath to speak for a long while, and then he pulled away and gave Sméagol a shaky smile. "The one that g..g..got away," he stuttered, and he laughed. Sméagol shook his head and then laughed too, and they fell over one another on the raft, howling with laughter.
Sméagol sniffed and looked mournfully over the edge into the deep water. "You lost your fishing-pole," he said.
"Yes, I did, but Sméagol… look what I found!"
His cousin thrust his hand into the pool and sloshed it about, then brought it out. His fist was clenched tightly and straggled bits of weeds poked out from between his fingers. Slowly, Déagol opened his hand. And Sméagol caught his breath.
Nothing was ever so beautiful as that glittering circle of gold.
He was cold. He knew he was cold, but he did not feel it. He twitched where he lay huddled in a hole in the riverbank, half-buried in the dirt and grass beneath a large mass of roots. It smelled of moist soil and earthworms and moss and he could not be seen. He would not be found. He licked at the ragged gash along his ribcage and whimpered softly, remembering now the hoarse shouts of the Orcs, the sharp whistle of Elvish arrows, and the black blood that had soaked the forest-floor and overran the clear stream water. Gollum had fled through the trees and vanished down the Silverlode southward, running with bent back and hands near the ground in the manner of the beast they believed him to be. He had eluded capture. They could not catch him.
But he had lost them, yes, lost them. The Elves hid the hobbits and the Men and the Elf and the Dwarf, hid them high up in the trees and had chased him away from them when he tried to draw near. They were gone now, gone down paths he could not follow into the heart of the great forest. He was cold and in pain but they were distant sensations, distant compared to the loneliness and despair that now racked his body and stole his breath from him. And though he squinched his eyes shut and begged for release, he knew that nothing would change. Nothing could ever change for him.
He missed their voices.
