The Ring sank into a peaceful rest, biding her time. She could do nothing to make the world go faster. She allowed her power to trickle through the water, through the earth, rebuilding her master Sauron for hundreds, then thousands, of years. She assumed the world had forgotten about her, but she had to find some avenue back to Sauron. She reached out, although few came close enough to the river for her to sense, much less reach out to.
Sometime, though, someone would find her. And she anticipated that day.
The morning dawned clear and bright, and she loathed every second of it . . . but she could feel a stir in the water: a boat. She prowled with her mind, feeling the sensation as the ship rocked back and forth with the impact of a fish dragging on a man's pole. These were small men, no bigger than dwarves.
She reached out slowly, patiently, probing to find them. There were two; she had to have at least one for her own purposes.
Deagol started leaping excitedly in the small fishing boat when he felt a powerful tugging on the end of his pole. He turned frantically to his cousin Smeagol, then back to the water, exclaiming loudly. "I've got one, I've got one!"
Smeagol joined him, urging him to pull it in. He almost got the fish inside . . . but the Ring couldn't let him. She reached out for the fish and tugged hard, so much that the fish strained from the pressure. It died suddenly, and the Ring rolled her eyes. The fragile thing now floated in pieces through the river's current.
But then she heard a splash. Deagol fell through the water, and Smeagol laughed, surprised. He moved to follow his cousin, but the Ring pulled Deagol down to her. She yanked hard, her patience suddenly thinned; Deagol paused in the water, having been pursuing the fish, but the Ring knew he would never find it, not now.
Come to me, she insisted, resisting taunting him down to her. He cocked his head, instantly drawn to her hiding place covered in silt. She dragged against his hand—he didn't even know why he reached into the murky soil, but when his fingers closed around her she sent a satisfying thrill through his arm. He shivered in the water, then leaped up onto the shore.
Deagol. She lulled over the name in her mind. While he scrambled up onto the bank, he eyed the golden trinket in his fingers, covered in dirt but still oddly attractive. It may have just been a silly piece of gold . . . but it entranced him. It was so beautiful, so perfect.
Sweet, sweet Deagol, the Ring purred. Deagol's eyes opened wide as she melted in his grasp. She frowned to herself when she shrank even more; why were men so small? She noted that she had gained a great deal of weight, not obese but not fine anymore. She liked herself better this way, substantial on her legs. Her feet grew a little, and her hair became tightly curled and golden. Her skin became slightly tanned, but not much. She bent over Deagol's dirty hand and kissed it slowly. The lad gawked at the sudden flutter of heat and lightning that filled him, a sensation that trapped him suddenly.
She probed his mind, and a wicked smile rose to her face, the latter of which now round with pinked cheeks—her eyes did not match her new body, and neither did the darkness of her cruel grin. He would be too easy; he wasn't a horrible creature, not yet, but very permeable under the impact of beauty and persuasion.
Smeagol crept up close to him, panting. He'd seen his cousin emerge from the river and called out to him, but Deagol didn't respond. He stood, frozen, on the grass. Smeagol peered over his shoulder . . . at the Ring. His eyes glazed over, for he had never seen anything so attractive in his life. The Ring shifted, allowing her woman form to be visible to Smeagol as well. Smeagol's eyes widened, and she grew slightly larger, ever so slightly. Apparently Smeagol and Deagol had similar preferences, but not identical.
"Smeagol," she whispered. Deagol did not move, for he could not hear her words to Smeagol. "Smeagol, love, I am your Precious."
He was permeable too . . . perhaps a better choice than Deagol, but she was not certain.
Smeagol's head lowered close to her. "Precious," he whispered. She hadn't even had to kiss his hand; he was already locked in her golden eyes, by the promises she could make and the influence she had over his mind. Either lad would take her right back to the mountain if she got him thinking long and hard enough, if he got easier to control like Isildur had.
"I must haves her," Smeagol hissed to Deagol.
Deagol stared back at him, shocked and defensive. The Ring felt a tingle rise up her spine as Deagol gripped her hand possessively; this would be an all-out fight. Deagol protested Smeagol's claim; Smeagol suggested that it "is my birthday, loves, and I wants her."
The Ring slipped away as the two grappled each other to the ground. She watched with wicked glee as Smeagol overpowered his cousin and took his life. She settled with a sigh; a powerful victor, even easier to grab ahold of. She could be back to Sauron in a few decades, perhaps.
Smeagol possessively cupped her face in his hands when he turned from his cousin. Never had he seen something so beautiful, so bright, so Precious. He pressed a clammy, anxious kiss to her forehead, and she conceded to allow it. She embraced him: chills of heat clambered through him, confusing but pleasurable. He felt so powerful, so needed, even if he didn't understand why.
"My Precious," he hissed; his smile grew sadistic, his eyes empty and greedy.
The Ring paused, realized she could tolerate him far better than Isildur. She settled her hand over his heart, felt its thuds . . . and began extending them.
Smeagol took her into the mountains. Her dark influence pressed on him very starkly, more starkly than it ever had on Isildur. She was surprised at how permeable he was under her hand, but he was obstinate about dealing with her in his own way. His own people exiled him over his obsession with her; she remained a Ring, gladdened by his foolish yet dark presence but a little sickened by how physically initiated he acted. She might not have minded the attention if she didn't have a master to get back to.
Eventually he became so dark that the light hurt, and he withdrew with his Precious into the mountains. His skin grew pale and taut over his bones, and his eyes wide, murky gray. He grew to be a loathsome creature . . . exactly what the Ring knew she was. She found somewhat of a kindred spirit in this Smeagol, or Gollum as they soon began to call him for the awful cough in his throat that sounded like the name.
In short, she possessed him. He would stroke the curve of her Ring for hours on end, just in the hollows of some dark cave in the Misty Mountains. Those days she cherished in some twisted way, in a way of feeling wanted by a creature she could control. Even in weakness Gollum was powerful, trapping fish, goblins, and orcs to eat rather easily. He made a mess of it, but she could tolerate that.
She prolonged his life. She could call no armies to her aid, and found she didn't entirely want to. With Gollum she felt wanted, and not by a creature haunted by her empty promises . . . but by her beauty and skill. Sometimes she would become a human, the only human he ever interacted with, and she would lay his head in her lap, stroke the top of his hairless scalp while his feet flapped excitedly. He doted on her, but for some strange reason she preferred Gollum's affections to Isildur's.
The Ring remembered that, perhaps, it was Gollum's darkness and power that attracted her.
But she could feel the call of her master after several hundred years in the caves with Gollum. Sauron begged her home, wished for her company and presence. The Ring waited, until she decided she was tired of Gollum. That postponed her an additional ten years, but the world would not fall into her hands unless she grabbed it. When Gollum found a goblin in his cave to eat, the Ring seized her chance and fell away from him, rolling down the stone. She would have said goodbye, but what did she care? Creatures only served to give her pleasure. She need do nothing for them that did not suit her purposes. And for now, Gollum was useless. She set that firm conviction in her mind: Gollum meant nothing to her.
As he wailed in the distance about her loss, the Ring actually felt a streak of excitement—pain. She had not heard such pain in so long, and she relished in the harm she had done. Sweet, sweet agony—for when one can feel nothing else, one longs to feel only what one can. It was a wistful sort of enjoyment, one that twisted the fibers of her being.
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