The Reclaiming of Smeagol

Gollum felt the impact as Frodo slammed hard into him, and he felt the earth vanish beneath his feet. He did not scream, only scrambled to keep hold of the golden ring—
that thing for which he’d sacrificed love and friendship, even himself. He knew nothing of the heat or the flames rising above the lava’s surface. He knew no fear of death, for he felt, once more, the ring’s seductive power as it attempted—desperately—to save itself. Gollum did not hear its silent call to its master. He did not hear its master’s anguished screech as both Gollum and the ring plunged into the red-gold lake of fire. He only felt a moment of pain, and then he knew no more.

*~*

The smell of the river and of dampness and growing grass assaulted his nose. Smeagol opened his eyes wearily. He felt so tired. His eyes blurred for a moment, and he blinked away the fatigue and stared with perplexity at his surroundings. He lay on his back, staring at a sky so blue it seared the soul. Panicked, he thought to scurry away from the burning hateful eye. Yet, after a moment’s pause, he realized that the yellow orb did not scorch or burn.

Then he felt it. Or, rather, did not feel it. Gollum realized that he could not longer feel the ring, could no longer hear its siren call. He no longer felt naked and exposed. Tears leaked from his eyes. He felt suddenly alone. This was new to him, one who had not been alone in so many, many years. Always, he’d had the ‘other’, that voice inside him who told him what to do, saved him and succored him when he’d been shunned by every one in his little village. That voice, like the ring, was gone from him.

Fear overtook Gollum, and he rolled over onto his belly and scrambled deeper into the tall grasses. He burrowed, the only thing he knew to do, as deep as he could, seeking shelter from the emptiness within him. Even in the saw grass, down among the roots where worms and insects burrowed, he found no solace. The void in his soul was so loud that it drowned out the singing of the birds in the trees. He wept.

“Why do you cry, my love?”

Gollum held his arms over his head, and his knees channeled furrows in the ground. “Precious is frightened. Precious is alone. Precious cannot find it.”

The grass rustled, and their crushed stalks released a sweet aroma. A cricket announced its displeasure. A shadow fell over Gollum. “It is gone, Smeagol, it cannot hurt you.”

“No,” he wailed, and he turned over with his knees still drawn up close to a body that felt unfamiliar. He pulled his hands away from his head and stared. The hands were brown and the fingers shapely. He looked up at the deeper shadow backed by the naked sun. Was this the nasty, trickster hobbit’s doing? The Fat One’s? “Master?”

“Oh, Smeagol, my love.” The figure moved a little, but remained backlit by the sun. “I’ve got us some juicy fish for our supper. Come on.”

My love? Gollum tentatively wriggled around in the grass, feeling itchy all over, and raised his head. No one called him love. Only his Precious. Only ..

“Come on, my love.” The voice was insistent.

Gollum got to his feet, feet that were not splay-toed, and stood up right. His shadow cast rippling patterns in the grass. He wore homespun breeches and tunic. He glared at the sun, expecting it to sting and burn. In its blue sky, the sun paid no heed. “Where are we precious?” The question was one of habit. He knew, now, he’d get no answer. Following the sound of the river, he watched the way the sun danced over the water’s edge, sparkling like all the night time stars come down to earth. His eyes watered, but whether from the brightness of it or the beauty, Gollum could not say.

His nose told him when he was close. He smelled the fish cooking, and his mouth watered. His stomach growled. “He’s ruined it, the Fat One has.” Gollum tried to put the appropriate venom in his statement, but to his own ears, the statement was false. Precious was gone. The ring was gone. His tongue could already taste the sweet, fried fish. He was alone, save for this stranger who seemed so familiar to him.

“The fat one?” The voice came at him from the side, and Gollum turned, but again, the sun light hit the speaker in shadow.

Gollum narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Fat Hobbit. Nasty Hobbit. Tricksy Hobbit.”
His gaze wandered toward the welcoming fire where the fish sizzled in bacon fat. His nose twitched, and his mouth watered. This was not Master. This was not the Fat Hobbit. His ring, his precious was gone. Gollum could have wept with the loneliness of it. He hated the precious. He hated feeling always naked and cold. Now, however, that he no longer felt its presence, he felt even more naked and more alone.

“Smeagol, my love,” the voice was beside him now, and Gollum jumped.

The Master of the Precious had called him Smeagol. But the nasty tricksy hobbit had never called Gollum his love. Only one other had ever called him that. But that one was dead. The precious had killed him. Gollum stared down at his fingers. No, he had killed his friend. His hands still remembered the way the windpipe broke under their grip. His ears still remembered the last gasp. His eyes still saw the way the light left his friend’s eyes. No. The one who’d been his love was gone.

“Smeagol, my love, look what I’ve got.”

Gollum saw a large hunk of bread. He could smell the dripping butter and honey. He stepped forward and stopped. A trick? Was it a trick precious? Precious did not answer. Precious could not answer. Gollum shivered. “Tricks us he does.”

The shadow moved, and Gollum’s eyes adjusted to the bright lights and as the shadow sorted itself out into a shape. “Deagol?” What horrible trick was this? Gollum screamed and back peddled and held his hands out in warding. “Dead. Dead. Lies. Tricks.”

Deagol shook his head. “Smeagol, my love, no tricks. No lies. I’ve been waiting.”

“Waiting?” Gollum looked around. He was so alone and frightened. His body shook with fear. Where was his precious? Why didn’t it answer?

“I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me,” Deagol laid the bread on a large leaf and with a long handled spoon scooped out chunks of gold brown fish. “I’ve been waiting and waiting. That nasty ring took you from me, but I waited, my love. I did.” He placed the leaf and the sizzling fish on a bare rock next to the buttered bread and sat down. “Come, my love, eat.”

Gollum took one small, confused step. “Waiting for me?”

Deagol smiled his innocent, sweet smile. “Yes, my love, for you.”

Smeagol searched and searched but he could not find his precious. It was dead. Gone. He was free, and he was not alone.

~*~ End ~*~