Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There were more people around than usual. More strangers- and lots of Elves. Far, far too many Elves- the place was crawling with them (Sméagol had seen three this week)!

"The King is nice enough, he is kindly, or he tries to be- yes, he is always trying, the nice Man, but if there is anything about him that is wrong, it is that he likes Elveses so much," Sméagol said to himself. He had quite forgotten for the moment that a few short months ago he had believed Aragorn to be one of the most horrible fiends living, second perhaps only to Sauron himself. He would have felt a bit hurt if anyone had tried to point it out. After all, that was before.

Thus far, he had managed to get away with skirting around Elves who did not see him or pretended not to, and had not spoken to any of them. But he had long suspected that if he were really to leave his crawling grasping life behind him and accept a place here as a comforted and tolerated pet, he was going to have to be nice to an Elf one day. Everything had a price, after all. And his place depended too much on the opinions of people who were fond of Elves. Aragorn was one, Frodo was another, and while Frodo Baggins may have gone away back home to the other side of the mountains, his opinion still mattered a great deal. And while Sméagol knew really that Frodo could not know what he did here in Minas Tirith or if he was rude to an Elf, a deep secret place in his heart was quite convinced that somehow Frodo would know at once and be frightfully upset with him.

"Why does he like Elves so much?" he lamented, looking down at the surface of his writing-table. A few hours ago Sméagol had made the mistake of lingering near two Elves who were having a quiet conversation. They spoke a language that was similar to one often spoken by Men here in Gondor, and he had thought he might be able to pick out some of the scattered words he had learned if he listened closely. It sounded different coming from Elves, and all of the musical sounds in their language came to the front, and it had given Sméagol a wretched headache. He had crept back to his room, and ever since he had been sitting at his table, vacillating between trying to note down a story he had heard some days ago and drawing circles. He felt compelled to draw them, he did not like them. His cold, slick skin felt even colder and slicker than it ought to and his headache had only gotten worse.

It had been over an hour since he had seen anyone- a young Man who had brought him water. It seemed as if someone should come- someone ought to come, because Sméagol had been alone too long. His breathing sounded harsh because the room was too quiet.

"We wants it," he muttered. "How could we have done it? Why does Sméagol want it so?" he said, almost sternly. "I shouldn't want it. I, I don't need it. I don't need to hide any longer. Why doesn't someone come? Gollum!" He set down the pencil he had been using. It had left smudges on his damp palm, and he was scrubbing these away against the leg of the table- and scrubbing tears from his eyes with the other hand- when the Lady appeared.

He didn't see her until she was halfway down the cellar stairs that led into his quarters. She moved without making a sound, as if she did not even stir the air around her. She had managed to open the creaky door at the top of the stairs and pull the stiff latch shut behind her without alerting Sméagol's keen, anxious hearing. Even a hobbit could not have managed that.

"It is tonight," he whispered to himself, his hands tightening into grim fists where they sat (one on the table and the other resting on his knee). "We knew it would happen someday." At once, he was no longer sure that he wanted company after all.

When the Lady stepped noiselessly off of the stairs and onto the cellar floor, Sméagol was frantically telling himself under his breath that he must be polite to her. He was so absorbed in doing this that, by accident, he rudely ignored her until she spoke.

"Good evening to you," she said warmly. "I have desired very much to meet Sméagol- are you he?"

Sméagol, in his current state, could not at once summon what ought to have been the obvious answer to this question. Instead he verified with himself: "Is she asking who we are, my precious?" And then he said: "We mustn't tell her. No, we must," and then in a horrible moment he almost told her his name was Gollum. "No!" he yelped. "Yes!" He buried his face in his hands. "What is she asking us? What was it?"

"I do not need an answer right away," she said. "Nor do I need one at all if you would rather not give it." She sounded calm and polite. "I merely wanted to know if you are Sméagol."

"Yes. Yes, of course I am; who else would live in a cellar?"

"Why, just because you are here now does not mean you live here."

"Can't she see us?"

"I see a small figure with his face turned away," said the Lady. "I don't mean to be impertinent by asking who you are. Truly to my eyes you might be any other Halfling, or even a child of Men."

Sméagol turned his gleaming eyes to her, and then turned them away again because Elves were so hard to look at. "What is it she wants with us?" he asked in a petulant, crackling voice.

"I shall not stay if you do not wish it. I desire only to have the honor of making your acquaintance. I owe my happiness in part to you, as do many."

"O? She is welcome, then," said Sméagol, with a suspicious glance. "But when did we help her? We have not seen her before." There was a guard outside his room that was supposed to turn away curious people who wanted a look-see at the Ring-bearer’s old pet (as well as record all of Sméagol’s comings and goings), so she ought to only be here if she had legitimate business- but surely Elves could find ways to get where they wanted to go.

"No, we do not know one another. I refer to Isildur's Bane," said the Lady. "Have you not been thanked before?"

"We have," he said, with a little shudder at hearing it named, "but peoples don't come and find us out in order to thank us for it special. That's not happened."

"Ah, I see. Without your part in the War of the Ring, I would have lost something of great import to me- something irreplaceable and dear to me."

He realized he was waiting for her to say the something was 'precious.' She didn't say it. "Is that so," he said rather lamely.

"Yes, it is. And thus I feel you merit my thanks in person. I have thanked Frodo and Samwise, and rewarded them as I could. I have less power to reward you, Sméagol, but I must at the very least give you my thanks."

Sméagol considered this. It ought to have occurred to him before that if the Black Hand had taken Precious back as He meant to, and extended His grip across the land, the Elves would have been driven out or killed along with everyone else.

Perhaps he had thought of it before, but had forgotten about it because it didn't matter to him at the time... but it was still true whether he remembered it or not. The Elves must owe something to the Master for ending that business. And to Sméagol. It was enough to swallow that the Men thought they owed him something- but Elves! And Sméagol would have gladly let all the Elves die, too.

He tried to talk himself into feeling that he had gotten one over on the Elves, but he only felt a bit sick to his stomach. "O, but I did not mean it," he said. "I, I did not mean anything."

"That is no matter," she said. He realized she had come closer to him and was now standing at the other end of the table. "Have you ever been punished for something you did not mean to do?"

"Yes- yes, lotses of times; yes, I have. Peoples like to punish Sméagol," he muttered.

"And you had no choice in the matter?"

"No. Didn't want to be punished."

"Then, why may you not enjoy being thanked for something you did not mean to do?"

Sméagol considered this a moment and said: "That is being clever and trisky and riddlesy about things, it is. We mustn't do it."

"What do you mean, Sméagol?"

She sounded so patient and kind that he could not possibly let himself trust her. At least she had come no closer.

"Twisting things. Words... the things words mean." He looked down at the table, and found his drawings of circles. He turned them over to hide them. "Finding reasons. There are always reasons to make things go away, or not seem so bad, but they are."

She said nothing, waiting.

"Lies, I suppose," Sméagol grumbled.

"But an action you have done cannot be a lie."

"Yes. If it is stealing, it stays stealing. If it is cheating, it is still cheating." He was thinking of Bilbo Baggins now. He shook himself.

"I know you have done evil," she said. "I will not do the disservice of saying it does not matter. It does, to the people you have wronged, and to you. It is well that you abhor your evil past. But is not the Ring destroyed?"

"It is." He felt at his chest. The emptiness there ached and gnawed.

"Is not the grip of Mordor broken?"

He flinched to hear the name spoken so casually. "It is. The Men are cleaning it up and taking pieces of it away."

"Do you think the Ring-bearer and his servant could have managed it without your help?"

"No, they was lost, and they thought they could get in at the gate, the sillies." He said this with what could almost have been mistaken for a wistful affection.

"Then," said the Lady, "I owe my great happiness in part, in large part, to you. And for that reason, I wished to meet you, and to thank you. Your reasons do matter, but they do not matter as much as your actions, and your service to me has been done whether you intended it or not."

"Very well," said Sméagol, "if she musst. Peoples is always saying things like that and I do not understand them." He pulled a blank sheet of paper towards himself and picked up the pencil. "But sometimes peoples want to say things, and Sméagol listens."

"You do not see yourself as someone who does good things, I see."

"No... no... perhaps," said Sméagol, who was not quite sure what she meant. "We helps the Men when we can. They find holeses in the ground and think orcs might be in them, and Sméagol goes and looks and he tells them what's there. We can find orcs before they find us."

"I have heard of your doing such work. Lord Boromir reports that you have helped him a great deal."

She was friends with Boromir, eh? Boromir was the only Man around who was sensible enough to be almost as skittish of Elves as Sméagol was.

"The Men is nice to us," said Sméagol, choosing not to comment on other people's personal affairs for once. "We helps them. And before, I killed some ratses in the kitchen. The Men do not like rats in their kitchens."

"Nor do Elves."

"Does Elves have rats in their kitchens?"

"Not often- we work to keep them out. I have heard of you also, Sméagol, that when you find abandoned orc-children, you carry them to the surface and ask your companions to render aid, is that so?"

"Yes," said Sméagol, his eyes filling with tears again. "But that has only happened once, gollum, and all the babies we found since was already dead."

The Lady watched him sympathetically while he collected himself. He continued:

"But the Precious is different, because if she was there... if she saw it, the way things were on the mountain, where it was so hot, and I wanted it back, but it seemed so nasty and slimy, when I took it back, and it had hurt the Master, and I promised him. And I wanted to throw it away. Yes, just for myself. I was doing it for ourselfs. No, just for me. Not even for Master. Always for me." His voice had dropped to a sing-song under his breath. "My precious. It was mine. Mine to throw away, or keep, as I wished it, and Master could not throw it away. It was mine. And He could not have it back. My Precious. My birthday present..." He trailed off, tasting the lie and finding it foul.

He had not meant to give away half as much as that, not even to himself. He snarled and started practicing his alphabet on the blank piece of paper. He wanted things to do so that the Elf wouldn't notice him refusing to look at her, and his letters could always use practice.

The Elf laughed. Sméagol forgot that he was deliberately not looking at her, and stared at her in astonishment. It was a laughter of cheerfulness, she did not sound as if she had found him amusing. What had he given her to be cheerful about?

"I have a secret I wish to tell you," she said.

"Oh? Sméagol tells all the secrets he knows."

"I shall risk it. I have become the queen of a nation," she said. "It is a proud, noble nation and important to many people, and they are happy and thankful to have me for a queen. The fate of thousands rests on me and my future heirs, now."

"Is that secret?" It would be odd to be a secret Queen, but as he understood it Aragorn had been a secret King for a long time.

"No, it is not secret." Her eyes twinkled. "But this is: I did not become queen because I wished to do something noble for the sake of this nation. I am queen because I wanted something very much just for myself. Yes, just for myself, I fear."

"O? What was it?"

Her eyes twinkled even more. "A ring."

"O," he said uncertainly. He looked at her hands- she wore a wedding ring. "That is it. She is joking with us." He looked sharply back at her face- he suddenly had the feeling he was forgetting something important. If he was, he couldn't find it in her face- all he found there was a beauty that turned his stomach. He looked away.

"I make no jest. It was love that brought me here," she said. "And in many ways it was simple selfish love, and my own desire. I see no shame in that. There was nothing unclean or evil in what I wanted." She paused a moment. "May I draw too, Sméagol?"

He frowned, wondering for a moment if he had heard correctly. "No, they are our papers. Yes, of course she may," he corrected at once, "they are only papers and the King will send more when they are used up. Yes, she may do as she wishes." Really he did not mind at all, but it seemed that when he did not know what to say the word 'no' came to mind very quickly.

The Lady sat at his table, close now- he could see her face clearly.

Elves were the first people ever, he remembered. They had lived under the stars before there was a spying Moon or watchful Sun. And other than that he did not recall very much- he had always found the Elf-stories less interesting than the tales of what Men had built, because he could not picture them as easily. Now he wished he'd listened better. The Lady looked as if she may well have gone wandering about under starlight before there was any such thing as Mordor. He almost asked her if she had, but could not find a way to put the question that would not make him sound like an imbecile. And he supposed it was none of his business.

His chairs were low and she was tall- even taller than Men, if he could believe his eyes. She had to sit with her legs folded up, even if she somehow made that look unnaturally graceful.

"There is another chair, for Big People," Sméagol pointed out.

"I don't mind this."

He shrugged and turned away, starting another row of practice letters. "They say it was not nice to want the Precious," he said. "But everyone did want it, even Boromir, and he is not nasty. He is kind." But, he remembered, Boromir would not want to be gossiped about to an Elf. 'He is kind' seemed a harmless enough statement, at least.

Fortunately she did not ask to hear more of Boromir. "What of your desire to destroy it? Why did you want to so badly?"

"We did not want Him to have it."

"Why not?"

"Doesn't she know why not?" Sméagol asked, in pure confusion.

"I know why the Enemy ought not to have had the Ring," said the Lady, "but not why you wished him not to have it. Was it only because you wanted it for yourself?"

"Yes. No, it was also because it was dangerous. And He- He hurt me."

"You do not need to say more about him. I know what he did to you. Was that the only reason why you wished to cast it away?"

"No, I- I wanted it to go away." He wanted the talk of it to go away, too.

"The desire to keep the Ring for yourself was not a wholesome one," said the Lady, "but I think your reasons for destroying it were sound, and natural, and no source of shame, even if they were your own reasons. You wished to rid yourself of something that had caused you harm and done evil. You feared the power of the Enemy if he regained it."

"I promissed."

"It is good to keep promises. Will you look at me, Sméagol?"

He complied without thinking, as if she had nudged his sharp chin into place with her cool starlight hand.

"Thank you," said the Lady.

"She's welcome," Sméagol said dreamily.

"I too think well of Boromir. He is a proud man, very much so, and that causes him trouble. But he is proud for reasons that have good in them- he loves his people, and he loves his capacity to do good. Is it better to do wrong for the right reasons, or right for the wrong reasons? What say you?"

Sméagol shook himself out of a mild stupor. "Why does she ask Sméagol?"

"Because you are at hand and I am curious what you may say."

"I do not know." And he wasn't about to answer her question flat out because it was as good as an invitation to sell out Boromir- he suspected anything he said about the Man would be the wrong thing. Elves is still tricksy, he reassured himself. "I have done wrong for the wrong reasons, eh, and right for the wrong reasons, so I doesn't know anything about wrong for the right reasons, do I? What's she drawing?"

"I shall show it to you when it's finished. I can tell that talk of the Ring tires you, and I will trouble you with it no more. I have given you my thanks, and we can speak of other things."

Sméagol nodded mutely.

"I see you have books," the Lady said.

"Yes, yes. They was presentses."

"Presents from whom?"

"The Ring-bearer," he said, a little self-consciously. "And his friends. Yes, and Baggins. It really is from Baggins! He gave us a present. All by hisself. Along with the wizard. Eh, does she know Baggins?"

"Yes, I do," she said. "Bilbo Baggins dwelt in the house of my father long years."

"O yes yes," said Sméagol. "Everyone important knows Baggins. He is a famous hobbit. All the other hobbits knows him. But Sméagol knew him first. Yes!"

"Did you truly?"

"Yes. Before he met any Elves." (This in fact was not true, but Sméagol did not know that at the time, so it could not have been quite called a lie either.)

"And he gave you a book? Bilbo is a gifted poet." A smile played on her lips.

"It is not his own book," Sméagol said, a little deflated. "It is, eh..." It was a grammar-book for young children and Baggins had written inside it that he hoped Sméagol would use it to 'acquire a skill he'd never had the chance to learn'. Sméagol had thrown it across the room when he had first received it, but he had retrieved it, muttering, and now many of the pages were dog-eared. "It is a helpful book. It helps me. With things... yes, things..." He looked away. He had just stopped himself from saying 'thingses'.

And suddenly, he had remembered that the Elf's face grated on his eyes. He closed them and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids with a faint moan. Then something else occurred to him. "But," he said, taking his hands from his eyes and sitting up a little straighter, "there is something better. Has she read Baggins's book?"

"I have had the good fortune to hear his poetry recited at my father's table."

"We heard his poems too," Sméagol informed her. "An eye in a blue face saw an eye in a green face. That is Baggins. He told us it. He is writing another book and he says it is a red book."

"Ah! His memoirs."

"Sméagol is in the book. There is a long chapter all about him. But- he didn't call us Sméagol, did he? No..." Sméagol belatedly reflected on what he had done in that chapter and why he was in Bilbo's memoirs to begin with. He became suddenly aware of how much his back hurt, and he slumped in his seat.

"What troubles you?" said the Lady.

"Nothing, nothing- gollum!" He winced and touched his throat. "Has she done drawing yet?"  

"Not yet, I fear. Do you like to draw?"

"It passes time, sometimes. Sméagol doesn't make very good pictures."

He caught her making the briefest of glances at his papers. He didn't have any drawings visible at the moment but circles. "Would you like to learn to make better ones?" she asked. "You could have a tutor, if you wish it."

"A tutor, my precious?" Sméagol asked, squeaking in confusion.

"Yes," said the Lady, "to instruct you in drawing, or any other subject you desire."

Had Baggins spoken to her?! "In grammar, she means?"

"If you wish it. Or anything else. What would interest you to know?"

"Lots of things," Sméagol said, eyeing her, looking for a sign that she was mocking him. "Things about the city. The Men we see knows a lot, but they are always busy and cannot always talk to Sméagol."

"Would you like to have lessons in history?"

"Ha, ha! Maybe so. We was alive for lots of it." At the bottom of a mountain not witnessing any of it, but alive... after a fashion.

She laughed in response. "So have many Elves, but we still learn. There is always more to learn, is there not?"

"There is," said Sméagol. "Always more." He noted that while the Elf may or may not be old enough to have wandered under the first stars when the world was made, for the first time since Gandalf had left, Sméagol was speaking to someone older than himself. She had certainly aged better than he had. "It is a large world. I have not seen much of it. It feels as if I must have seen all of it, it was such a long way to walk, but I have not even gone past the mountains- no, and I never shall go any further West."

"Do you wish to travel? Gondor is large and beautiful, and the roads are not closed to you."

"O no, precious, it is tiring to go out, and the world is frightening. I would like- for someone to tell me what is there, perhaps. Like Rohan. The place with all the horses."

"Are you fond of horses?"

"No. Don't like them. They are so big." He was curious about Rohan because he knew people from Rohan, but he didn't wish to say so. They might not like to be talked about, and she might not believe he had friends. He fidgeted, and was blissfully unaware of how much he looked like a guilty child.

The Lady chose not to press the issue. "I see. The King would be happy to find someone to give you lessons."

"He'd be happy, eh? Doesn't Sméagol cost a lot of money already?"

"You are worth it to him," said the Lady. "And more." She laughed again. Sméagol closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. "If the other Halflings had stayed he would be lavishing money and gifts upon every one of them. At one time there were six of your kind in the city, and his expenses then were great. You will not be considered expensive until your own needs and wants cost as much as the amount of kindnesses the King could shower upon six times your number- and even were that so, the King would be unlikely to deny you."

Sméagol considered telling her that it seemed misleading to call him a hobbit, and decided against it. He was tired of that argument. He yawned, and covered his mouth so she would not see his fangs. "We won't bother the King by asking him for silly little presents," he said. "We have enough. And he shall tire of us."

"Shall I ask him on your behalf?"

"I wish you would not. It will be trouble for me, if he tires of feeding me. I am too old and too sick to go out on my own and hunt." Ach! Again, he had said too much. He didn't want her wondering what he was accustomed to hunting, and how he caught it.

"I give you my word that he will not cast you out," said the Lady.

Sméagol disbelieved her in silence.

He had been telling her an awful lot for a stranger and an Elf. Or in fact, for anyone. Bewitching us, perhaps, he thought, looking at her from the corner of his eye. He felt deathly tired and in no mood to resist being bewitched. What did it matter anymore, really?

"If there was no risk to yourself- and I pledge that there is not- would you wish me to ask the King to provide you with a tutor?" she asked.

"Yes," he confessed, after hedging a moment. "The Men knows such a lot, they do, and I... I feel silly."

"Why, there is nothing wrong with not knowing as much as others because no one has ever taught you as much as they, and you should not feel silly for it. I hope you do not wish to learn only because you feel silly."

"Because it would be interesting, then. And because- Sméagol would not be alone so much if someone was coming in to teach him."

"Is he alone very much?"

"Too much."

"I see. That is not good. I will speak to the King." She set her pencil down. "I have finished," she said. "Here is my drawing."

She had drawn a hobbit. It was no one Sméagol recognized.

"Do you not know him?" the Lady asked.

"No."

"Not even a little?"

Sméagol humored her by giving the drawing a long look. He only knew five hobbits, and probably she had been attempting one of those, but the drawing didn't match any of them. The face was too thin and sharp, and too cynical. She drew well enough- it was to be expected from an Elf- but if he didn't know better he might have thought she'd never seen a hobbit before.

"No, I do not know him. He doesn't look very nice," he replied, dryly adding: "We thought Elves would draw nicer."

"Why do you not think he looks nice?"

"He looks..." He looked like a prat. "He looks like he is thinking of something nasty and horrid."

"That is true. I am afraid there is much shame in his past. But he is a hard worker, or so I have heard on very good authority. And he is clever and teachable, and I doubt he will remain the same creature. Perhaps you'll find you recognize him someday- or at least, you may find he is not so dreadful."

Sméagol thought the drawing was unlikely to improve with time. It would be rude to say so, of course. "Yes, one day, perhaps."

"You look quite tired. I shall leave you, if you like."

"Yes! If she would like to. Nice Lady. She doesn't wish to be in a cellar."

"I find your cellar cool and pleasant," said the Lady, rising to her feet.

"It is, yes it is, and it is all ours. The King gave it us."

"It's lovely. But I ought not tarry. Good night to you."

"Good night, good night."

"I thank you for granting me so much of your time."

"It is no matter, we wasn't doing anything, she may come back if she likes," Sméagol said breezily, and rebuked himself silently for having told her she could come back. She was nice enough, but he had such a headache from hearing so much Elf-talk... yet the pain was almost pleasurable, in a way. Like a healing ache.

He frowned at himself. We'll be gathering flowers and patting kittens next, he thought.

"How hospitable! Thank you. Good night." She glided up the stairs.

Sméagol stared dully at the space where she'd been. "Make nice to Elves," he said. "We thought we would have to, someday, but- I think- I think I was not really nice to her, she was nice to me, whether I liked her to be or not, and I just answered whatever came into Sméagol's silly head. It was not so bad, I suppose." He sighed, and coughed a little. "I hope that will be the only Elf," he said, and took himself off to bed.

He did not wake up until three days later, at which point he was certain that she'd bewitched him.

"You spoke to Sméagol?"

Aragorn could let his guard down in their chambers, and allow the sheer horror to show on his face.

Arwen's back was turned to him- her hair flowed down it like a sheet of black glass. "Indeed."

"Why did you wish to speak to him?"

"He is under the care of the royal house," said Arwen. "Even if you and I do not tend him with our own hands, he is my charge, and I felt I would be remiss if I did not introduce myself. Whether or not I choose to use it, I hold a great power over the poor creature."

"You speak sensibly, yet I wish you had told me you wished to meet with him," he said, "for I would have had him brought to you in a more pleasant place, and I would have had him cleaned and properly dressed. There was no need to be alone with him in his quarters."

"I did not wish to disturb him by arranging a formal meeting. He is old and easily wearied, and his strength ought to be left for when it is needful."

"I hope that at least he was clothed." Sméagol had shown a tendency to declare that his surroundings were hot and to promptly strip to the braies.

"He wore a housecoat," said Arwen, running a brush through her hair. The brush looked like an oar dipping into still water. "It was a vile-smelling thing. But if all the horrors of Mordor could not rob him of the ability to enjoy the small comfort of his favorite housecoat, far be it from me to take away that comfort by telling him I cannot bear the garment for even a short meeting. Do you not also meet him in his room and in whatever manner he chooses to be in?"

"Yes, I go to his quarters when I must have word with him," he said.

"I chose to do likewise. Why ought I not to?"

At all other times Aragorn was inclined to think that Sméagol was not wild out of a disdain for the ways of Men and not from the Ring's grip on him, but because he was honestly bred to it, and there was a strange sort of innocence in the matter. What good would it do to extinguish an innocence that Mordor had failed to touch? What harm did it do to anyone to allow Sméagol to dig burrows in out of the way places, or root up interesting rocks and bits of refuse from storm-drains, or even catch and eat moles in the gardens when he thought no one was watching? These little freedoms delighted him so.

And yet, the thought of Sméagol being in the same room as Arwen gave Aragorn a squeamish feeling he had almost never experienced. The creature seemed suddenly a source of shame, in a way he most certainly did not when he pawed at Captain-General Boromir's knees and left mud on them.

Aragorn did not wish to voice all of this. He suspected he was being absurd. He constrained himself to the one question he felt he had a right to ask: "Was he cruel to you?"

Her answer was swift. "Not at all. I gave him no reason and there is nothing left within driving him to be cruel without reason- Isildur's Bane is gone, and Sméagol has learned a hard lesson in humility. He is stubborn, but not unteachable. In fact I speak of him to you because I wish to suggest that he be given a tutor."

"A tutor?" This he would not have guessed. "Why do you think so?"

"He is bright and he is curious. He is lonesome and prone to boredom."

"This I have witnessed," said Aragorn.

"He is also teachable, and he will learn- if he is not guided I fear he will seek learning of his own accord and it may not be well chosen."

"You may fear rightly. I would gladly provide him with anything that will be wholesome and to his benefit," said Aragorn, "but yet it would be asking a great deal of a tutor to take on such a task."

Arwen turned to him and gracefully crossed the floor to sit at his side. "Would it?"

"Would it not?"

"Do you think Sméagol is so dreadful as that?" she asked. "He gave you a very hard time in the past, I fear." She stroked the tooth-marks scarred into the heel of his thumb. He shivered at the lightness of her touch. "I would not claim that vile creature you faced is gone entirely, but he will not re-emerge without some desperate need and surely a tutor would not encounter him."

"I do not fear that Sméagol would attack a stranger without provocation at this stage- only that he may prove a difficult student."

"Perhaps. It will be needful to find a teacher with compassion, and perhaps it would help to find someone with an interest in what Sméagol knows already and can teach in return- else he could be made to feel ignorant and ashamed. Someone with an interest in woodcraft, perhaps, or the ways of fish."

"Sméagol is learned in those things- impressively so. What do you suggest he be taught? My feeling was that he ought not be required to learn etiquette."

"I am in agreement that he should not be required, but he should be offered that kind of learning if it suits him," said Arwen. "It is unclear to me whether he would wish it. He will never be able to be perceived as someone native to Gondor- his small kind have never dwelt here. I believe some- not all, but some- of the oddity we perceive in his speech came from the dialect of his people. For that reason he may be loath to shed it. His interests are in lore and geography. And in drawing, I believe, and penmanship. He was practicing his runes while I sat with him."

"Yes, he does so often, I hear. You speak sensibly. No doubt his time and his hands are best given an occupation. And, as for your time- you must do as you think best, but I would feel more at ease were you to pledge not to enter that cellar again."

"It is not a bad place," said Arwen.

"It has a smell I do not enjoy," said Aragorn.

She laughed. "Nor I. But yet it is a kind place. It is full of the small mercies and comforts the creature has been given by his minders. He is loved- did you not know?"

Aragorn let out a breath- surprised at his own sense of relief. "I had hoped," he said. "I feared he would be difficult enough to treat with mercy, and impossible to love."

"You can fear that no longer," she asked, studying his face. "Sméagol has his difficulties in manner. But he is not so lost that he cannot be loved, and even enjoyed."

"Boromir claims to have become quite fond of him," Aragorn acknowledged, "but I feared that was due to..." He hesitated.

"Madness?"

"Not quite. Boromir showed a strong desire to atone, and I have worried that his time with the creature was some strange form of penance whether he knew it or no. But Faramir is satisfied that it is not and I trust him to know his brother's mind."

"My love, I fear the Ring marked Sméagol in your eyes," Arwen said softly. "For you seem unable to imagine that he may be loved, and I have heard like doubts from Faramir, the other who saw him first while he was yet under the spell of Isildur's Bane- and you are two men of great compassion."

"Twould be very like the cruelty of Sauron, to brand him so. When I first saw the creature he was vile."

"When I first saw him, he was not. I am fortunate." She looked thoughtful. "If no candidates are known to you already," she said, "I will make it my own project to find someone to teach him- with your permission."

"Yes," Aragorn said. "I will keep my ears and eyes open, as well. He ought to have a tutor. And-" -he said this with greater reluctance- "if you choose to investigate the matter, or to speak to him further, you have my full support, and I will pay anything required." He could not keep her from the unpleasant side of humanity if she were to rule at his side. There were people in Gondor who would need her aid who may not be more loathsome than Gollum thrashing and biting in the Mere of Dead Men dripping with filth and screaming more filth, but might be less pleasant than Sméagol bathed twice daily and blinking up apologetically from his writing-table.

"Thank you, my love," said Arwen. Aragorn sensed that he had passed some sort of secret test- a feeling he had had often when speaking to her and her family. "That is all I had to say about him. Let us speak of you, now- or perhaps not speak at all."

Aragorn soon forgot about Sméagol entirely.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Drizal was a prudent orc. He didn't make himself a nuisance when the bosses were in a snit. He only went after a tark when he had backup and a good reason, never when he was alone and felt the instinct to make trouble. If another orc was putting on airs, Drizal stepped aside and let him pick fights with someone else. When he was assigned a wife, he made things as pleasant for her as he reasonably could, and most of his cubs had survived long enough to die in battle instead of being eaten in the nest.

He survived the fall of the Eye by keeping his head down and running the other way from orcs who were panicking. And now, when he turned a corner in the tunnels he kept his back to the wall and a knife in his hand, and when he saw bright eyes ahead he stopped where he was.

It was no great surprise to him that Shelob's Sneak was still alive, or that he looked like he'd been eating well. The Sneak was a scavenger, after all. Drizal had run into him once before, gnawing on a body he'd been assigned to carry off to the pits. A brisk shout and a wave of the sword had cleared him off.

Drizal stepped forward now. "Get out!" he said gruffly.

The Sneak's gaze was flinching but stayed locked on his eyes. Instead of scurrying off, he spoke, in nasally Orcish. "Bloody afternoon, most violent of butchers."

"Speak Common. You're embarrassing yourself," Drizal grunted.

"O very well," said the Sneak, and his Common was even worse, "we was just wanting to be friendly, but this is easier, yes." He glanced at the knife in Drizal's hand and the sword at his hip- it was a fine sword, taken off of a captain who had been too stupid to use it to save himself.

"Get out," said Drizal. "This patch is mine."

"Sss, sss." The Sneak backed away, but instead of leaving entirely he sat his skinny shanks down in the dirt. "We won't fight him, no, nice Orc, don't want his tunnel. Nice tunnel. Very reasonable, asking us first and sticking us later. A very fine Orc!"

Drizal spat in the dirt. "I didn't tell you to flatter me, did I?"

"No, sss. I won't be staying, but the Men are coming. Men from Gondor. They are collapsing the tunnel. I am checking it for Orcs. I've found one, eh?"

"You? With the tarks? Am I supposed to think they're that desperate?"

"Yes," said the Sneak. "They can't fit down here, can they? They needs us. They took us in after the War. We surrendered- yes. They have all kinds of meat and they shares. You might talk with them, or you might go; or stay here and be buried, if you wishes it."

"Talk with them? I'm not as dumb as I look."

"That's a help to him, isn't it? Very well, then. Is anyone else here?”

"Would I tell you if there were?" Drizal asked him.

"Of course not," the Sneak said amiably. His nose had been twitching rabbit-fashion throughout all of this nonsense and Drizal suspected he knew full well that no one else was around.

Drizal pulled his sword out just far enough to show a glint of the blade. He had already decided the Sneak was not worth the trouble to chase- he looked like a picked-over corpse already, but Drizal wanted the twisted thing to know he wasn't welcome.

The Sneak backed up a little farther away, and said with an air of finality: "I'll hold them off- a bit. They won't wait long on account of us bellyaching over nothing, so he had better run quick. I hopes he has a back-door."

He darted off.

Drizal considered that there were plenty of other vacant dens in Mordor these days, and whatever reason the Sneak wanted him gone, staying may not be worth the trouble. He decided to take his things and go for a little walk. When he came back, he saw a collapsed tunnel and tarks stomping all over. He made himself scarce.

It was hard marking time in these days with no captains and no orders, so he was not sure how much later it was when he encountered the Sneak again. Weeks, maybe. This time it was a ruined guard tower. Drizal had been living in the basement. He came up for food one day and there was the Sneak, looking even sleeker and better-fed than the last time.

Drizal had not been faring as well and the Sneak greeted him with the customary phrase for a low-ranking soldier. "It is a good afternoon to run fast on, little slave."

"Common," Drizal grunted. It was bad enough having the Eye shut and His lands going to rot and to Men without Orc-talk being mangled by an idiot on top of it.
It was tempting to run the little rat down where he crouched, and stab out those big blinking eyes of his, but that would not be prudent. Not yet.

"Common-talk, then, if he likes, yes,." The Sneak seemed not to realize they'd seen each other before. He probably thought all orcs looked alike.

"This here's my spot," said Drizal.

"That's a shame, then," said the Sneak, keeping an eye on Drizal's sword, which he wore at his hip, like always. "We don't want this place ourselfs, do we? We won't give you any trouble, but the- sss- what you'd call tarkses are about."

"I wouldn't call 'em tarkses."

The Sneak looked briefly confused, then dismissed it. "The Men. They wants the tower. Who knows why they wants it? They are Men. And they will have it." He glanced up at the big hole in the ceiling. "The Men of Gondor will not be stopped by one Orc. No, and they won't slow down, either."

"Suppose I have a warband with me?"

"Suppose, eh? But you don't have one. It is only yourself. One poor Orc all alone with no one to help him. The Men might feel pity, if he asks. They are fair Men. Orcs do not have many choices, do they? Couldn't have done different, could you?"

"So you think I should walk up to the Men and beg? 'Oh pretty please, give me a steak?'"

"And why not, eh? He might try it," said the Sneak. "As long as he doesn't ask for manflesh or something foolish like that. They are not like the Men who worked- sss- here. They are not slavemasters. It won't hurt you to talk to them, will it? Or if you would rather not, you may leave again, but this time you had better go farther. They are coming for all of it. All of His lands. They say nothing will remain."

"Again?" Drizal asked.

The Sneak glanced at him submissively. "I thought I remembered you. Does he remember us?"

Drizal did not comment. "Get out of Mordor, eh?"

"Yes. Quite away. Go under the mountains, go deep underground."

"And eat what?"

"I don't know. It would be very hard, yes; but it is that, or talk to the Men, or die."

Drizal's jaw tightened. He could hardly say the Sneak was wrong. And he was a prudent orc. He knew when he was beaten.

"Huh," he said, and spat on the ground. "There's more Men outside the mountains."

"O yes. Swarms of them. Like hornets," the Sneak agreed. "Men everywhere. It is the world of Men now, they says. And why not, hmm? What use do Men have for orcs? They can kill each other, they don’t need you. You will never win, if you fight them. The Eye is gone, the White Hand is gone."

"The White Hand was bollocks to begin with."

"Probably so," the Sneak said diffidently. "I don’t know about him. But I knows about not being wanted… yes, yes, no one wanted us to begin with. No, but the Men took us. They take what is lost, even if they do not really want it either."

"Can't see as I have much of a choice. You lead."

The Sneak nodded and opened his mouth as if to start another argument, and then it dawned on him what Drizal had said. His round eyes got even rounder. "Yes! Yes!" He skipped about as if someone was putting a torch under him. "Come, Come! Follow us! Follow! He will see- he will see! Yes!"

In a kind of frenzy, he scurried up ahead. "He must come, come quick. They will look for us if it's too long. Will they? No. I told them not to. Dangerous. But they may. They don't always listen." He stopped short in the next doorway, his nose quivering. "But! The nice orc, the very clever and beautiful orc, he is wearing a sword. The Men will see it right away, and they will tell him he cannot have it. It is better- perhaps- he will not want to leave it. But it is better to be without it- eh? Isn't it?" His voice was cautious, pleading, stammering.

Drizal indeed did not want to leave his sword but as there were four knives hidden on his person, he didn't truly need it. He put it down on the ground with only a hint of regret.

The Sneak cried out in delight and clasped his bony hands. "Yes! Very good, very nice orc. Good, good! Follow me!"

He led Drizal into a broken hallway. "Good orc," he cooed. He was still keeping a careful distance between them. "Sensible orc, very smart." He lapsed into Black Speech, or something perhaps a little older and very stuffy-sounding. "Sharp-bladed butcher, thou spearer of piglets and Manlings!" He switched back to Common before Drizal could demand he do so. "He has done well, o yes he has- still following? Yes?"

"If you want me to keep following you," said Drizal, "you can stop running ahead. My leg's not so good after the war."

"Not so good, eh? Poor orc! The Men may help, perhaps, yes, not so fast, precious. Ha, ha! We can be patient, can't we?" He was trembling. Did he suspect something? "They'll heal you, and feed you, and give you new clothes. O! I had - I had- I hoped- gollum! Yes, even I, my precious. Follow me!"

Drizal needed no invitation to follow him. But the slippery thing was still skipping on too far ahead.

"Hoped for what?" he grunted. 
"A-ah!" the Sneak said, as if he had a pain. "Not to see- all of the orcs gone. Not all. Not all of them, every last one, even the whelps. And only a mad old Halfling to say how they had been when they were not fighting. It is a hard world, a cruel world, gollum, and it is nastier for orcs, isn't it?"

"Don't you eat orcs?"

"I used to," the Sneak whispered. "I was horrid."

He had stopped looking back at Drizal, and he had stopped glancing to his sides and over his shoulders.

There were standards of the Eye in this hall; they had been intact when Drizal had last passed through but now had been clawed and spat upon, by something small that could only barely reach the bottoms of the banners.

The Sneak had reached a doorway. He paused, staring up ahead, quivering all over. They were mere feet away from exiting the tower, and Drizal could smell the tarks waiting outside.

"Which way is it now?" the Sneak mumbled. "Was it up or down? Both lead out, don't they? It may not matter."

"It doesn't matter." Drizal slipped the knife from his sleeve and lunged.

The Sneak felt or heard him coming and rolled aside before Drizal touched him. Drizal pitched after him and caught the thing by his ankle. The Sneak whipped around like a striking snake, and then the two were rolling, spitting, kicking, biting. Drizal tried to bring down the knife and found his wrist caught in a grip much stronger than he'd anticipated.

That was one hand. The other turned up just then on Drizal's throat- cold, heavy.

A light haze began to intervene between Drizal and the sight of his opponent's huge, angry eyes; his head ached. First he clawed at the Sneak's wiry arm with his free hand, but then cooler thought prevailed, in the waning seconds of his life, which desperation slowed to clear long slices of time. He withdrew another knife from a pouch along his side- for his arm was free- a hand on one wrist, a hand at his throat, and none to catch his other arm.

First, the grip on his throat suddenly released, with a shriek that came with a smell of rotting fish, which was the Sneak's foul breath. Second, after this had happened, the knife hilt was in Drizal's hand. He brought it up, as he gulped in air, and it swiped through Sneak's flesh as he fell over sideways and curled into a ball. 

Drizal stood, gasping and coughing. His knife was red. The Sneak's blood looked and smelled shockingly close to Man-blood. Drizal licked the blade of the knife- it tasted like some cross between Man-blood and orc-blood.

He ought to drive the knife down into the thing that had just tried to choke him. That had been the plan to begin with, after all, but looking down at it crying there on the floor, Drizal remembered suddenly the rot it had been talking about it being a cruel world for orcs, and he stopped at spitting on the Sneak and kicking him away. Then he would have liked to run, but when he looked up, a group of tarks had appeared in the doorway. They held crossbows and swords.

Drizal dropped his knife and raised his hands in surrender. "Go on," he said. "He claimed you'd be fair."

"And so we shall," said one of the Men, looking at the Sneak on the floor, bleeding and carrying on, and then looking at Drizal with coldly flaming eyes. 

They tied Drizal up, took his knives, stuck him on a wagon, dragged him miles under the Sun to their city and then tossed him in a cell. When they put him in the cell they took off the ropes. It was a dark roomy cell, with no one else crowding it or stinking it up. They gave him a meal of raw pork.

“When’s the questioning start?” he asked when he could bear the suspense no longer.

“When we are ready,” said the Men, which was no answer at all, and then they left him alone for a while. Drizal did pushups.

A Man turned up a while later and started asking questions. Drizal answered as much as was reasonable. He would not tell them anything that would help them destroy the remains of Mordor, and he could honestly say he had no idea where the other orcs were and thought they were all probably dead. What had he done in the army? What he was told. Mostly dig latrines. 

“Why did you put a blade to our scout?” the Man asked quietly, calmly.

Drizal thought this over, and the Man did not hurry him. This was only the first round, after all. “I didn’t like your scout,” he said.

“Did he attack you?”

Drizal considered this, decided the answer would be brought out of him one way or another. “We attacked each other.”

“You struck first.”

“He came into my home and told me to clear off. Said you Men were going to pull it down around my ears. I didn’t like that.”

“I see.” The Man watched him a moment, and said: “You will remain here for the time being. You have harmed a citizen of Gondor, and that merits a long span of imprisonment. It is well that you did not kill him, or things would have gone worse for you. I know you do not know our customs. I will allow you to ask questions if you wish.”

Drizal though this all a little too high-and-mighty for his tastes, but he knew when to keep his head down. “When’s the real questioning start?”

“Never. We do not torture.”

Drizal quietly disbelieved him. “Is the Sneak a citizen of Gondor? Doesn’t much look like one.”

“He is not a citizen by birth. He made an agreement with us to abide by our laws in exchange for the rights of a citizen- among other matters which are not your concern. And he is not called the Sneak here, but he has asked that you not learn his name.”

“Was he supposed to be making friends with orcs?”

“That is no business of yours.”

"Are you going to put me to work?"

"No."

"Why not?" asked Drizal. "I'm a good worker. Strong."

The Man showed no emotion. "Are you saying you wish to work?"

"For you? Not much; it's a waste to leave me in a cell, that's all."

"Perhaps we will find work for you at a later time."

"Are you going to keep feeding me?"

"Yes. Unless you are released someday to fend for yourself."

"Released?" He raised one hairy eyebrow. "How likely are you to let me out?"

"That depends a great deal on how you conduct yourself," said the Man. "You must serve a term of imprisonment for harming our citizen, as I have said, and beyond that, it would be unsafe- for you as well as for anyone else- to simply let you go free in the city. If you are released, we will have to find a safe place to take you to. But we do not plan to keep you imprisoned for life merely because you are an orc."

“Right. Thanks, then. I don’t need to know anything else,” said Drizal. “I’ll find out.”

He was taken from the room and returned to his comfortable cell.

It seemed that, in his way, the Sneak had not been lying. He must have wanted to be on Drizal's good side or something like that. 

Drizal did not feel sorry for stabbing him. That wasn't an orc's way, and besides, the Sneak was repellant.

However, he decided, calmly, that it would not be prudent to stab him again or to stab anyone else for the time being- and that was a bit of a relief.

Chapter Text

Twas only Aragorn's imagination, inflamed by dislike, that gave something of an orcish cast to the features of the granary supervisor - and whispered to his fancy that orcs, at least, were likely to admit that they stole.

Aragorn reminded himself firmly that he had not learned enough yet to judge, but that was no fault of his own.

The manager sat across from him, squirming. A sheen of sweat had appeared on his forehead, but his expression remained cold, even disdainful.

"I place high value on mercy," said Aragorn. "Yet if you will not account for your deeds I can deal with them only as they stand on the surface, and the sentence is imprisonment."

"The King may do worse if he chose," said Faramir at his side, without threat or coercion- merely stating the truth. Aragorn could brand the man or have his hands cut off if he wished, under the law. There were many other things he could do under the law that he did not believe he would ever really do.

"I tell you," the manager insisted, "I know not of any theft. These figures are inaccurate." He gestured at the papers before him that showed the discrepancies with what had been reported to be in the city's stores and what was actually there.

The figures had been put together by Faramir and a few that he had chosen and trusted to assist him. There was no question of their accuracy. "There are compelling reasons to be swayed by the sight and odor of grain," said Aragorn. "Perhaps it was passing through your fingers when a child at your hearth was hungry. I cannot allow your deed to go entirely unpunished, for you have caused others in my kingdom to suffer want due to your actions, but I am prepared to listen to your reasons."

The man's chin jutted and his lips pressed together tightly. He said nothing.

Faramir's eyes flickered over the supervisor's face, betraying no hint of emotion. "The King is under no kind of obligation to give you an audience," he said, "let alone in private, where your dignity may be spared. It is rare to see a man waste such an opportunity so completely."

"I know nothing," the man insisted.

Faramir glanced at Aragorn. "The time for this meeting grows short."

Aragorn admitted to himself that there was a certain temptation to assert that his Steward was mistaken, for even this distasteful business was not so unpleasant as what may await him. But he could not put it off, and more importantly, he could not undermine Faramir’s authority by doing so.

He merely said: "Indeed. There are others who need my attention and you will not steal it from them as you stole their grain. You will have to wait in your cell for a public hearing, unless you speak now and speak quickly."

There was no unless. The man sat in taciturn silence until Aragorn signaled for him to be removed. The manager almost seemed to be getting a sort of pleasure out of it.

"I wish that had not been necessary," said Aragorn. "But then, there are many things I wish were not necessary."

The evening cool outside and the sight of greenery were most welcome after the fruitless time spent in that close room.

"One thing I can say for the man," Faramir mused, "he would not tell you a story. Twould have been easy enough for him to give you a sympathetic tale whether it was true or not."

Aragorn had all but furnished one for him. "A small praise."

"Hardly praise at all."

Neither needed to state that- while Aragorn truly believed in offering every one of his subjects every option for clemency- he had special reason for wishing it had here been taken, for this was the third man who had been appointed by Denethor to come under scrutiny for misconduct in as many weeks. It was not Aragorn's desire to appear as though he was ruthlessly disposing of anyone who may be loyal to the last of the Ruling Stewards- but the crimes were compelling and he must act. 

It was unclear whether these men were enacting a sort of protest against his rule, or whether Denethor had simply made bad appointments. Perhaps he had felt his best men needed to be reserved for military service. He was not about to clarify the matter, either to Aragorn or to his sons. 

Though he did not look forward to his destination, Aragorn did look forward to having the night's business done, and he set a swift pace. He realized how swift when he saw that his faithful, uncomplaining Steward was near sprinting to keep up.

Aragorn slowed. "From one wriggling eel I go to another," he said. "You need not accompany me- indeed, perhaps it would be best if you did not. Sméagol is no fonder of you than he is of me, I fear. Were we to appear together at once, it may frighten him into hysterics. Then he would need my healing hands in earnest and they would yet avail him not."

"The creature may be a little hardier than you fear," said Faramir. "I did not however intend to go inside, for I do not believe I would be of help there. I plan to wait near the entrance so that you may call on me if I am needed."

"To be truthful," said Aragorn, "it would cheer me to know you are at hand. Yet I do not know how long I will spend with him, for I know not what I will discover or whether he will cooperate, and I do not wish you to wait all night. Consider yourself free to depart at any time if the hour grows too late."

"Yes, my King."

They had too soon reached the building- a storage room attached to a cellar. It had housed foodstuffs, and then it had housed weapons, and now it housed Sméagol. In one of his more capricious decisions, Sméagol had insisted on moving into the cellar the moment he had heard about it- which was before the ground-level portion had been emptied. Somehow it had been contrived that he had been brought in and out of the building for some weeks without noticing that the upper story was still full of crossbows and swords and all types of things that one would not wish to see in the hands of the thing that had been called Gollum. Sméagol asserted that he could not use weapons and he showed no interest in them, but Aragorn felt as if giving him a sword would be, at best, as wise as giving a small child a lit torch.

Boromir had once reportedly attempted to offer the creature swordsmanship lessons, quite without Aragorn's input. Knowing Boromir, this was likely to be true and unlikely to have been offered in jest. It was fortunate that Sméagol himself had politely refused.

Aragorn turned to Faramir. "Is there anything I ought to know before I go in?"

"There have been no new reports," said Faramir. "For the time being, Faelon and Eardwulf each look in on him daily, while Ruthron is on hand if he's needed for some emergency, and Tarador has stopped caring for him but has recently applied for a turn at the guard post."

Aragorn nodded. "He lasted much longer than I could have hoped. They all have, at that."

"Indeed. Sméagol's meals are supplied by the same kitchen that supplies meals to the wall guards, and he's seen by many people during the day who bring him food or water. There are always guards at the post across from his window. In short- there are still eyes on or near him at nearly every moment, whether he knows it or not."

"Very good. Somehow I am sure he would still find some way to slip away unseen at any time he wanted to."

“Perhaps, but he would have to want to very badly. Eardwulf reports to me once a week," said Faramir. "His reports have been brief- Sméagol is well overall, he is lively and putting on weight, but he has a persistent cough and seems to still have intermittent fevers."

"Thank you. I suspect I know what his troubles are, but I had better take a look at him to be certain."

There was nothing else to ask, nothing else to discuss, and no reason not to go in.

The top level of Sméagol's quarters was barren except for a table, a cabinet and a rather shabby chair. It had been a higher priority to furnish the cellar.

As Aragorn approached the cellar door, a scrabbling noise began behind it. Aragorn stepped back. The door burst open amid squeals of: "Who is it, who is there, precious, who's come to visit Sméagol?"

When he saw Aragorn, his face went from bright and eager to an emotionless look, something rather animal, like a staring cat.

"Good evening," said Aragorn. "I don't plan to take much of your time, but I have heard you're having some trouble with a cough, as well as some other things. I am a healer, and though thus far I have not been able to help you as much as I wish I could, I might have a look."

"Ach," said Sméagol. "Is that it. We thought we was in trouble."

"Whatever would you be in trouble for?"

"I thought I was about to find out, didn't I? Very nice of him to want to take a look, but Sméagol is not ill." He was out of breath, however, from climbing the stairs.

"Eardwulf is concerned," said Aragorn.

"O, yes, frowns every time we cough."

"It would comfort him if I were able to tell him I examined you."

"And it won't take long?"

"It will not."

"Very well," he said miserably, and approached Aragorn with his head down. "He is the King, he must do as he likes."

Aragorn would have accepted a firm refusal, but he did not wish the examination to be put off or declined, and so he did not remind Sméagol of this.

Aragorn had planned his visit based on what he knew of Sméagol's schedule- at this time after sundown, it could be expected that he had had breakfast and a recent bath, and would have the calmest possible mood and least offensive smell. Sméagol's hair was still damp from the bath. The odor Aragorn knew so well was present, but faint and mixed with something almost reminiscent of humanity. He was clad in a soft robe with smallclothes under it.

"The cough is the main trouble but I hear also that you still have periods of fever," Aragorn said. "Is anything else troubling you?"

Sméagol fiddled with his sleeves and said: "Sometimes we makes a funny noise in our throat."

Aragorn laughed, which startled the creature and made him hiss. "Do you not expect that one might laugh at your jokes?"

"Wasn't so funny as all that," Sméagol said, "and him a King!"

"I am not sure what royalty has to do with it."

"He ought to have better taste," was the sharp reply.

In truth Aragorn had laughed not so much because of Sméagol's wit but out of surprise, and no small relief, that Sméagol was being playful. Apparently, he had been mistaken, and the relief had not been warranted.

"I will be as gentle as I can and take no longer than I must," said Aragorn. "Please take off your robe."

Sméagol began to undo the sash, muttering: "They wants clothes on us when we are too hot, and when Sméagol has them on they says 'take them off'."

Aragorn watched his hands for tremors, clumsiness, or any other trouble. Sméagol's fingers moved stiffly. Aragorn thought it reasonable to assume that Sméagol had arthritis, and the only questions were how severely he felt it and which joints were most affected.

The robe removed, the creature hopped up onto the table, moving as lightly and nimbly as a healthy young man. There appeared to be nothing the matter with his thin legs, at least.

Sméagol's eyes were clear and bright and his ears were unobstructed.

"Very well. But we don't cough out of our ears," he said without rancor when Aragorn asked him to turn his head.

"I am trying to be thorough," said Aragorn. "I should hate to only look at your chest and then have to return tomorrow because something else began to trouble you that I could have noticed and didn't. I suspect you do not want to do this again."

Sméagol made a noncommittal noise that ended up turning into 'gollum'. He winced.

"Open your mouth," said Aragorn, "and let me have a look at your throat."

Sméagol's throat was, unexpectedly, quite normal and healthy looking, aside from the pallor of his membranes. His breath was fetid, although his teeth looked quite clean. Reports were that Sméagol was proud of his fangs and willingly cleaned them with a cloth without being asked. He also seemed to have a habit of sharpening them, although he had not made it clear how he did this, perhaps because he did not want anyone to stop him.

"Did something happen to your lip?" Aragorn asked calmly.

"Bit it," said Sméagol.

"It looks painful."

"Of course it is." He looked abashed. "He knows, gollum," and he flinched and looked at Aragorn's hand, which still wore an old bite-mark.

Sméagol's pulse was strong and steady, if a bit rapid- likely from nerves. Aragorn suspected that his liver was larger than it ought to be, but could not be certain. There were more differences than simply stature between Halflings and Men, however similar they may look.

"Sméagol was wondering something," he said diffidently, as Aragorn was evaluating whether or not his spleen was in the wrong place, with his fingers pressed into the ancient Halfling's soft skin. He had not realized that after a bath Sméagol's skin was free of grime and sweat, and for a time it was dry and silky. It was also patchworked with scars. Many were faint and old and no doubt the result of some misadventure, and many others had been plainly left by devices of Mordor.

"Ask anything you wish."

"There was a time-" He squeaked and wriggled. Aragorn was discovering that Sméagol was ticklish, which he seemed to dislike very much- several times he had shown his fangs though he had had the self-control not to try to use them.

Aragorn withdrew his hand. 

"Once, we… I… I remember I went though a window," Sméagol said, "and there was… yes, a small soft Man… a Manling. A baby. Yes, a baby this big." He gestured with his hands.

Aragorn arranged his face into a marble mask.

"And I… I…" Sméagol faltered. 

"Where did this happen?"

"The M- the Greenwoods. I went in, but there was a - a woman, I thinks, yes… with a crossbow. So she chased nasty Sméagol away. And I was angry." He whispered this last, sounding as if this was the final horror- that he had had the gall to be angry.

"You did not harm the child?" Aragorn hoped he had betrayed no emotion. Sméagol was a great deal more honest now than he ever had been, but he still found it hard to resist answering questions in the manner that would best please the asker... and surely he knew what the 'correct' answer was even if Aragorn did not seem to be pressing.

"No. I did not. Not… then. Not that night. But I have forgotten things. Lots of things. And I think, I remember that night because I was angry, because I’d been chased off. But perhaps if I had not, I would not remember." He looked up, wide-eyed. "Was there another window?"

It was plain that he had perfect confidence that Aragorn knew the answer.

"I do not know the answer to that any more than you do," said Aragorn. "I have spoken to the Wood-men. They had seen you, glimpses of you. They had evidence of your thieving eggs and meat. They had chased you away through windows. And there was a case where one of their number froze to death in the woods, and the corpse was robbed, and partly eaten. You did not leave marks that would betray yourself, but I am fairly certain that was your deed."

"It was. I remember," the creature whispered.

"There was a harsh winter," said Aragorn, "in which children disappeared. I do not know whether it was your handiwork. The bodies were never found, and you were not the only horror in those woods." There had been some evidence that it had not been Sméagol, in fact. Other deeds more likely to be his had been reported some distance away, occurring too close in time for him to have committed both. But it was still all conjecture.

"So he does not know either," said Sméagol. He sighed a little. "But it is bad enough to have tried it, I suppose."

"I think so."

"Aren't you angry with us?"

"I have known about these things for too long to be angry with you upon hearing them now." 

Sméagol looked thoughtful for a moment. Aragorn steeled himself for more questions of like nature.

Sméagol asked: "What was he poking our belly for?"

That, at least, could be answered. "I was examining your insides."

"Why?"

"To see if there is any trouble with them."

"Is there?"

"Not that I could detect. While we are discussing your past, have you had trouble with coughing or wheezing before you came to Minas Tirith?" Aragorn asked. "I know you may not remember." He had tried to recall whether he had noticed Sméagol wheezing when he had known him in the past, and decided he had not had leisure to notice, or any particular reason to care about such things.

"Don't remember," said Sméagol. "Didn't bother with things like that. No one to fuss over us if we had a little cough." Aragorn went around to the other side of the table. "What's he doing now?"

"Examining your lungs. It's easier from the back."

"Ask us to turn around, then, gollum, he's the King," said Sméagol, bewildered.

"I have already walked around."

Sméagol said nothing, but looked at Aragorn over his shoulder.

“Take a deep breath,” said Aragorn. He was tempted to do so himself.

Based on what he knew of Sméagol’s case, he believed one of two conditions most likely to explain his symptoms. One would be manageable, the other almost certainly fatal. He suspected Eardwulf, at least, had thought of the same, and that was why the houndmaster- a man of calm temperament- had insisted on taking this seriously. 

The more serious condition seemed to also be the less likely. Yet it would be in keeping with Sméagol’s fortune and temperament for him to die a slow, lingering, miserable, inevitable death just at the very first point in his life when other living beings would sorrow for his loss, rather than being indifferent or pleased.

He now listened for the crackling sounds that would point towards doom. He heard none, only wheezing. To be certain he continued listening to Sméagol’s lungs rather longer than necessary and past the point of the creature’s patience.

At last Aragorn stepped back from him and said: "I suspect you have asthma. It seems to be fairly mild, but dry air would make it worse, as would exercise. Also, you ought to avoid dust. If you notice anything in particular troubles your breathing, let someone know, and measures will be taken to keep you away from it. Likely you had the condition already but being exposed to the heat and smoke on Orodruin made it worse. But still your case is not serious- at least, it will not be so if you are careful yourself and allow us to be careful with you."

Aragorn surprised himself with the depths of his relief. He would not have to tell Boromir that his oddly-chosen new favorite was dying. Not yet, at least. 

Sméagol nodded. He looked unconcerned. "What is asfma, eh, precious?"

"It is an allergy that makes you cough," said Aragorn.

Sméagol looked uncertain. "Gollum," he said, and winced.

“Of course,” he acknowledged, “your body is not quite normal, so I can be totally certain of nothing. But everything indicates that trouble as far as I can judge it. I have seen all I need to- you may put your clothing back on if you wish."

Sméagol picked up his robe. It was a warm night, and it seemed odd that he wished to wear such a garment.

"I hear you still have fevers," said Aragorn.

"We catched cold a while back, didn't we?" Sméagol said, as if asking himself for a reminder.

"But now it is gone and the chill remains?"

"Chilly, sometimes, but the weather in the city is all new to Sméagol." He was fumbling with the sash and scowling.

"Shall I help?" Aragorn asked.

"The weather? Does he command the weather?" He sounded half-sarcastic, half-frightened.

"Alas, I do not. But I can tie your sash if you'd like."

"Of course that's what he meant. Yes, if he cares to, why not?"

Aragorn dropped to a crouch and began to do the tie.

"You've spent a great deal of time in marshes and swamps, as I recall," he said. The sash was soon tied, but he did not stand, opting to remain crouching at the level of Sméagol's face instead, for if he stood he would loom imposingly over his huddling patient.

Sméagol's eyes grew round and bleak. Aragorn wondered if another confession was coming.

"He never punished us for biting him," said Sméagol.

Aragorn almost laughed but stopped himself. That remark had plainly not been a joke. "I sentence you to be dragged on a lead from the Dead Marshes to the Greenwood without food or water," he said, "and to have your ears boxed when you try to escape, and for your darkest deeds and deepest secrets to be told before the greatest minds of our time at the council of Imladris. Will that suit you?"

"I... suppose." He frowned, looking as if he may think this too light-hearted. "What about those... Wood-men of his, that we made problems for? We never said sorry or anything at all to them."

"Would you like to?"

"It doesn't matter whether I would like to, or would not. I did something wrong, and I have gotten away with it, and just because I can keep getting away with it does not mean I ought to," said Sméagol, a little impatiently. 

"Indeed," said Aragorn, failing to quite keep the dryness from his tone. "The Wood-men do not know who or what you are. An apology from you would mean nothing. I would have to explain you to them, and then explain why I will not turn you over for punishment. I doubt that would satisfy anyone still suffering from the despair of the loss of a child."

Sméagol winced. 

"Yet, on the other side of things," Aragorn continued, "if the case is that you really did nothing more than steal, and tamper with dead bodies because you yourself were maddened from starvation, those crimes are not so monstrous that many people are likely to still be calling for your blood decades afterwards. In either case a statement from you will not be helpful. I may say as well, Sméagol, that you left very little evidence of your deeds. I know enough to feel certain in my own heart that you were, at best, quite a nuisance, but I do not know enough to sentence you to a legal punishment when you yourself cannot remember these things enough to give a reliable confession. Then too the Wood-men are independent and I do not have authority to try their criminals. You will have to live with the guilt in your heart and consider that punishment enough. If it seems too light, perhaps it is, but even a King cannot address all wrongs."

Sméagol curled up with his chin resting on his knees. His thoughts looked far away. He rubbed at his nose, and Aragorn noted a scarring on the side of his wrist that looked as if it had been left by the chafing of ropes. Aragorn himself would not have bound anyone in such a way as to cause lasting injury, if it could be helped. Perhaps it could not have been helped or he had not realized the bonds were too tight, or perhaps the scarring had occurred at another time.

"If," Aragorn said, "anyone were to come to Minas Tirith seeking out redress for wrongs you have done, then we would discuss how you might offer restitution." Privately, he thought if anything of that sort happened, Aragorn would sit the accuser down with Sméagol for an hour, and then ask if punishment for the pathetic little wretch was still requested. It would be unlikely for this to happen, for Sméagol's existence was known only here, in Mordor, and in Thranduil's realm. He had done nothing punishable since Orodruin, Aragorn would not pursue any charges brought by the refuse of Mordor, and it was highly unlikely any Greenwood Elf would demand a reckoning.

The creature seemed calm, but Aragorn ought not to be too quick to think he was being callous. Sméagol was also one of very few people he had known to weep at the death of an orc. Sometimes his switches between reptilian coldness and convulsive passion did not follow a logical pattern, and perhaps what was in his heart did not always find its way into his face or voice. 

"Gollum," he said at last.

"What happens when that sound arises from your throat?" Aragorn asked. He now suspected that Sméagol had not in fact been joking when he had complained about his characteristic sound.

"People laughs at us, gollum."

It seemed the guess was correct. "That is unfortunate, but I mean to ask to what physically happens in your neck. How does it feel? Does it cause you any discomfort?"

"No. It is like…" He hesitated. "It is… swallowing but bigger."

"I confess I have never met anyone with that particular problem before," said Aragorn. "But I know it distresses you, so I shall think on how to cure it. Is there anything that seems to make it better?"

"I don't know, gollum- no, not anything."

Drawing his attention to it had seemed to make it happen more often. Aragorn suspected it was partly a nervous complaint. He might do well to ask Eardwulf and Faelon, or even Boromir, who had had more opportunity to observe Sméagol when he was not upset, if anxiety contributed to the trouble. "Are you ever in pain, Sméagol?"

"Everyone is sometimes," he said bemusedly.

Aragorn said very gently: "I wish to help you."

"Why would you want to?"

"Because I like to help."

Sméagol appeared to be thinking. He shifted position, perhaps evaluating his body. "Yes," he said reluctantly, "but he can't help."

Perhaps not. It seemed that Sméagol's chief complaints were being Sméagol- and being elderly. There was no cure for either.

Except one, Aragorn thought darkly, which cures all; but he had long ago decided not to use it. "Surely there is something to be done for your pain even if the cause cannot be cured," he said.

"They gives us willow bark," Sméagol said, "like Gran did. And cold cloths if it is- very bad." 

"And that helps you?"

"A bit."

He seemed reticent to discuss the matter and it sounded as if his minders had it well in hand. "Good. I am glad to hear it. There is another type of bark I would like you to try."

"What is it?"

"There is an illness that often strikes those who wander in marshy regions. Your symptoms are not exactly as I would expect from the condition, but neither are you exactly what a healer would expect. Then, too, it may be slightly different in Halflings. I would like to give you a bit of the remedy- it may help you very much, and will not harm you."

"It won't harm us, eh?" asked Sméagol. His large eyes were solemn. "Perhaps he thinks Sméagol is fussing, but he says 'you are not what I expect', and then he says 'I do not expect this medicine to hurt you,' and I think- I think you cannot be sure. It may hurt me. It may kill me."

Aragorn held his gaze for a minute, and sighed. "You are right," he said. "That is the trouble with trying to help you. But if I too am right, and your condition is what I believe it to be, then it may lead to your death if you are not given medicine."

"Sss, sss. I have to think."

"You don't need to decide tonight. And you may find it helpful to ask the opinion of others who know you."

"Perhaps."

"If there are no other complaints you would like seen to, I may bid you farewell."

 "Farewell," said Sméagol in a small voice.

Aragorn got up and left, trying to look as if he was not hurrying away.

Faramir was still waiting outside. One moment, he was sitting out on the lawn with dandelions in his hands, looking up at the sky with a tranquil expression, and seemingly unaware of anything around him. At the next moment he had appeared by Aragorn's side. "My King."

"He behaved as well as I dare expect, better, in fact," said Aragorn. "He was as docile as any hobbit of the Shire under my hand, and quieter than most; he patiently allowed me to discover ever more marks of torment and violation on his body, and to prod at them at my leisure, while I wondered if he yielded the same way under the hand of Sauron."

A look of dismay crossed Faramir's face, followed by keen caution. He looked very deliberately at something behind Aragorn.

The cellar window was open, and gleaming eyes stared out of it. Sméagol's hands were on the sill- he had been on the point of climbing out.

He looked taken aback.

"Ah," said Aragorn. "Your ears are as sharp as ever."

"O don't say His name," Sméagol pleaded. "Don't say it."

"I am sorry."

Sméagol hesitated a moment, then pulled himself out onto the grass where he sat sprawled. "Didn't mean to listen," he said. "Didn't know he had a friend with him, we just- I just- he is still here, and I wanted to ask if he knows how to make Sméagol not sweat so much."

"I can't promise you anything," said Aragorn. "It is possible that you're perspiring because of your fevers, and in that case the remedy I suggested may help you if it doesn't poison you. It may not be related at all, and then the medicine will not help."

"Ach."

"That is the best I can do," Aragorn told him.

"Good evening, Sméagol," Faramir said.

"O good evening. It is Lord Faramir," said Sméagol, adding under his breath: "and us in our housecoat."

"Sméagol, did you make yourself pleasant to your torturers as you have to the King tonight?"

A paroxysm of something like the old malice shook Sméagol's thin frame. "Never!" he snapped, and he spat into the grass- remembering his manners a moment later and looking horrified.

"Thank you," said Aragorn.

Sméagol surreptitiously blotted his mouth on his sleeve.

"While I have you," said Faramir, "I believe I and the King should like your advice, as your counsel has proved so profitable to others in the past."

"If he likes. Is it orcses?"

"Not at present. I can give you no identifying details of the situation we face, but this is the root of it: there are Men the King has found guilty of certain crimes. Their guilt is established beyond all question, and we wish to know why they have done what they have done. We are offering them mercy, which can be had if only they are truthful."

"They won't talk?" Sméagol asked.

"They will not. We can only guess at why not. What is your guess?" He did not say why he thought Sméagol might have insight into why a known criminal would not confess and Sméagol did not ask.

"Perhaps they do not want to believe you would really be so kind, because then they has to know you are so much better than they are. It doesn't feel nice, knowing those things."

"Is that sort of pain less bearable than a sentence of imprisonment?" Aragorn asked.

Sméagol pinched thoughtfully at his lower lip, worrying at the part that was cut. "Sometimes," he said.

"Is there anything that can be done to convince them to talk to save themselves?"

"No, not anything- not anything a nice Man would be willing to do."

"I see."

"Doesn't help him very much, perhaps. We do not know Men very much. Knows orcses better."

"I thank you for your counsel," said Aragorn. 

“Helped him as much tonight as he’s helped us, I suppose.” Sméagol yawned, showing that his fangs were few in number and most of his mouth was given over to soft, useless gums, and then the carelessness of his speech seemed to dawn on him. “But we-"

Aragorn looked down at him. “You said exactly what you meant to say and meant exactly what you said. I take no offense. I have been little help to you tonight.”

“Mm. Lots of helps other times,” said Sméagol. “Gives us nice houses.”

“Indeed.” 

Sméagol sat where he was, splayed out in the grass, and showed no sign of going back inside. Aragorn caught Faramir’s eye. He desired to discuss matters with his Steward well out of the hearing of curious hobbits. He rose to his feet.

“Going already?” Sméagol asked mildly.

“Yes, I am afraid so,” said Aragorn.

“He's just turned up, hasn't he? Kings is busy, I suppose.”

“Indeed. I hope you have a pleasant night.”

“Mm.”

He walked away, with Faramir at his side, contemplating Sméagol’s apparent disappointment that he was leaving. Even if he was only being polite, it was significant. It had once been out of the question to expect civility from the creature.

“Faramir,” he said, “I wonder if perhaps I ought to be satisfied with the way things are and am now simply hoping for too much.”

The response came with unexpected swiftness and firmness. “No. We may be grateful for what is now, while yet hoping for better to come. But, my King, there may be a difference between hope and expectation.”

“Perhaps you are right.”

Chapter Text

"Sméagol's quarters, milady?"

"Yes." The forewoman's tone was sharp; she did not look up. "He is not contagious, and does not have fleas or lice. You won't need to handle his clothing- someone else does that."

Dolthadis said nothing in reply. In her mind's eye she was seeing again the creature's trial before the King and hearing the accounts of his crimes. She had not had a very good view- she only knew that Sméagol was small, and when he had been commanded to remove the hood that covered his face, those who had been close enough to see him clearly had drawn sharp breaths. She had heard rumors of what they had seen, but the rumors did not sound credible.

"Eredhil and Helethel will work with you. Do as they say and don't wake him. And don't wear any perfumes when you go to his room."

Don't wake him? she thought, but it was clear that further questions were to be addressed to Eredhil and Helethel. She bowed her head stiffly, and tried to listen to the rest of the schedule without letting her thoughts stray back to the figure lying on his face at the King's feet…

Eredhil and Helethel allayed her fears somewhat, for she saw at once that they were young and rather silly, and would not have been trusted near Sméagol if he were dangerous.

"Are you married?" Eredhil asked.

"Yes."

"He had better be careful. Sméagol is quite handsome."

Dolthadis let the poor jest pass without comment, and said: "I have heard I must not wake him?"

"I wouldn't like to be woken by a housekeeper while I was sleeping."

"Then he will be present?"

"Not always," Helethel interjected. "He is taken away on trips, but most days he is present while we clean. He sleeps during the day and sleeps deeply. I have never seen him wake. He is not always in the bed- many times he will have hidden himself away somewhere in the room."

"So if you cannot see him," said Eredhil, "there is no telling where he might be."

Dolthadis said nothing. That night she slept restlessly and dreamed of improbable creatures with glowing eyes and large fangs.

The upper level of Sméagol's quarters was a recently vacated storage room, desolate and dusty. It was soon dealt with, and then they descended. The musty, fishy odor that could be faintly smelled upstairs now became quite strong, and Helethel covered her mouth and nose with her scarf.

Dolthadis had been told that they might speak to each other in low voices but could have no more light than might be had from candles. The window could be opened if the day was overcast.

While scrubbing what was plainly a handprint away from the wall at an improbable height, she was startled by a cry of "Eredhil!"

Eredhil was leaning over Sméagol's bed and peering into it, wide-eyed. She drew back with a flush, and crossed the room to the point that was farthest from the bed.

Dolthadis first thought that the wisest course of action was to stay far away, herself- but as she worked, some imperceptible change of mind took place, and she found herself at the bedside, scrubbing the spot where it appeared that Sméagol pulled himself up by the bedpost.

A small head lay on the pillow. Dolthadis looked fully at it. Sméagol's face was burrowed into the blankets and could not be seen- she saw the back and side of his head, which displayed thin hair with white scalp showing through it, and one exposed ear. His breathing was audible. He whistled through his nose a little.

When she turned away, Eredhil and Helethel were huddled against the wall opposite her.

"What?" Eredhil whispered. "You looked startled. What has he done?"

Dolthadis paused before replying. "Nothing. He is quite asleep. I was surprised to see that his ear is pointed, though it ought not surprise me, as he is a Halfling."

The girls looked at her as if she had just exchanged pleasantries with an orc.

As days went on, Sméagol never woke while she was in the room, and often was sleeping in some hidden place. It grew easy to forget his presence and to be startled if he should happen to make some audible snorting or whimpering sound in his sleep.

Helethel had ailing family she must often see to and Eredhil frequently claimed illness when something exciting was happening in the city or when her betrothed had a day off from guard duty. It was not uncommon for Dolthadis to come to Sméagol's quarters without a companion. The work was light-  the odd residue was not difficult to clean if addressed daily and not allowed to build up, and his laundry was collected by someone else before she arrived. She did not need to make the bed.

There were times when she felt she was being watched. Sméagol's presence had become so unobtrusive that on these occasions it often did not occur to her that she really was not alone in the room.

On one of these occasions, she happened to notice, while cleaning the bedpost, that there was no head lying on the pillow or small form huddled under the blankets, which were thrown back.

Often, of course, he was not in the bed. But it seemed that she recalled seeing him there when she had entered the room.

She looked under the bed, and saw more blankets. Perhaps he was somewhere in amongst them. She straightened up and turned away, and saw a crouching form investigating her cleaning supplies.

She gasped, at first taking the creeping thing with its rounded back for a dog or a rat that had somehow gotten in, and snatching up the rag she'd been using as if it might somehow defend her.

The shape emitted a hoarse cry of alarm, and half-stood. It had a human shape. "It is only Sméagol," he implored, "don't throw things at us!"

She lowered the rag at once, her heart in her throat. She had been cautioned that Sméagol could nip if he were bothered, and would wake in anger if too much light were let into the room; she had not been told he might speak to her or how she should reply.

She found her tongue when, with sniffing nose and peering eyes, he began to reach his long pale hand into the cleaning bucket. "No, Sméagol!" she scolded, as if he were a puppy trying its teeth on the leg of a chair, or a tottering child about to pull down a tablecloth, and she stepped forward to pull away the bucket.

Sméagol drew back and sat on his hands. He laughed nervously. "Sorry, sorry! Always making trouble, we are. We was just curious, wasn’t we?"

"It is only my washing water. I am cleaning your room," she said. 

"Is she? She makes it nice while we sleeps?"

"Yes, I do my best to make it nice." She kept her voice even as he blinked his eyes up at her out of a gaunt face. "Have I made too much noise and waked you?"

"No, no. Sméagol can't sleep. Poor Sméagol."

"I see." The pleading face and whispering voice did not seem to fit with the horrors he had been accused of- not accused of, she remembered; confessed to. "If I am disturbing you I shall leave at once."

"O no, not disturbing, not at all." He shuffled towards the small writing-table, and she saw how he moved, and had to caution any look of shock or pity off of her face. "We are in the way, yes. She is working!"

He pulled himself into a chair by clutching the table's edge at a point where she had often before cleaned away the mark of his hand. 

She returned to her work, as she had been all but told to do, willing herself not to turn and stare when he shuffled papers or made odd sounds in his throat. But mere minutes passed before he called: "The nice lady might pour us a cup of water, perhaps?"

"Of course," she said stiffly, and turned. He was indicating a pitcher that stood on the table, with a cup next to it- it was a small cup with two large handles and when she picked it up, she found that his hands had made it slick and sticky to the touch. Thus the handles, she judged- without them the cup might be prone to slip from his grasp.

He did not take the cup from her hand but waited for her to set it before him. "Thanks her," he said, and began to sip water. She went back to her work.

"What's her name?" he asked a moment later as she was cleaning a spot on the wall, where she now suspected he had been leaning.

"I am Dolthadis."

"Dolthadis. My name is Sméagol," he said a little self-consciously. "You knows it already, but they tells us I ought to introduce myself even if someone knows us- knows me already."

"Well done," she said, "for remembering to do as you were taught and introducing yourself so politely." Privately she did not see the point of making him do it.

Sméagol watched her work with curious round eyes. "What's wrong there?" he asked when she scrubbed at a spot on the floor. 

"There's been a spill."

"Wasn't us." He took her lack of reply as disbelief, and asserted: "They brings my food to the table, or the bed if we're ill. I'm never over there with it. No! Never. Wasn't us."

"It is no matter to me how it came to be spilled- I only clean it."

"Wasn't us."

"I believe you." She was not really certain of this, but it did no harm to reassure him.

Sméagol nibbled at the nail of his thumb. "Where's she going after this?"

"I go to clean other quarters."

"She never goes past the hound-master, does she?"

"No."

"Anyone who works in the gardens?"

"I do not. Why do you wish to know?"

"I- it is nothing, only, perhaps- we thought she could take a message if it was no trouble."

"What message? If it is urgent I can take it for you."

"No, not urgent, only- my stomach hurts. That's why I can't sleep. Yes- and we are tired." His voice had a whine in it, and he looked forlorn. He looked, also, quite frail, and she before had heard vague suggestions that he was in ill health.

"I will speak to the guard outside," she decided, "and he will know who to message."

"O no, I am used to it…"

She was already halfway up the stairs.

As soon as she stepped out the door, she wondered if Sméagol ought not be left alone, unwell, and unsupervised with her cleaning supplies. But she had already left him and may as well finish the errand.

She walked up to the guard, who glanced at her and asked: "Has Sméagol been making introductions?"

"Yes. He says he has a pain in his stomach and was inquiring after the… houndmaster." As the word left her mouth it seemed odd.

"The houndmaster manages his care," said the guard. "He had to approve me. I will let someone know."

She nodded, and turned back towards the cellar.

"You do not need to remain with him unless you choose to," the guard said.

"I would like to finish my work."

"Very well."

When she returned she found Sméagol shivering and leaning over a basin. He had taken it from her basket of supplies, but under the circumstances he was welcome to it.

He was turned aside slightly and did not address her. For a moment, she considered going back to her work without speaking- then she shook her head at herself, and went to sit beside the creature in one of the low chairs at his table.

Sméagol raised his head a little, gave her a dull, appraising look, and pointed at a chair that stood in the corner. "That is nicer for Big People. For their long legses."

She hesitated a moment, wondering if he meant she was not welcome at his table.

"They always says they doesn't mind and sits there with their knees up to their chins," said Sméagol. "That chair was brought special! Two Men had to carry it!"

"It is more sociable to sit beside you."

"I suppose. Well, she must do as she likes."

"Someone will be coming to see to you," she said.

He nodded, looks of relief and distaste chasing each other across his face.

He did not look like a murderer. Few tried in the King's court did, of course, even those whose guilt was not in question- but they were not usually so small in stature.

He was sniffing in her direction. "She's been here before, hasn't she?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, trying not to tense visibly.

"Lots of times, eh? Don't mind us, don't mind us! It is only our habit. Men do not use their noses very much. There is much to learn if you do, yes. What's that smell she wears?" At this last, he suddenly turned back to the basin.

"Lavender." She had been warned about scents. "I apologize."

As her scent appeared to trouble him, and his scent most certainly troubled her, she got up and once more returned to the rag and bucket, half expecting that he would call her back- he showed signs of having the kind of capricious nature that is often unable to think of a use for one's attention but does not like seeing that attention paid elsewhere.

Instead he started talking to himself under his breath, quickly, with agitation. Much of his speak was too swift to understand but she heard - "-begging for Men to come and hold Sméagol's hand," and a derisive "Ach!"

It seemed improper for her to address this.

She was nearly finished with her work- the last thing to do was clean the windowsill. It was always marked with handprints and sometimes footprints. Having seen the way Sméagol perched in his chair, and having seen that he would fit comfortably in the windowsill, she now suspected that he sat in the window to take the air. This thought gave her a curious melancholy.

"Sméagol," she said, "I know you dislike the light, but perhaps you would feel better if I let in some fresh air. I could open the window."

"What's that? No. No window jusst now. Thanks ye, I don't want to smell the- grass and the dirt." He coughed queasily.

"Very well." She had never heard of anyone's stomach being turned by the smell of fresh grass, but apparently he'd managed it.

She worked in silence briefly- very briefly.

"What's she doing all of it for?" Sméagol sounded fretful and cross. "I'll just touch everything again and it will become foul and dirty. Why bother cleaning it? Ach!"

"It is the way of the world for things to become dirty and need cleaning," she said. "Do you prefer things to be clean?"

"Yes," he sulked.

"Then I shall return to do the work again, until I am told not to. I am paid to do the work. It is not a hardship for me." She reflected that things would not become as dirty as quickly if he would not touch and climb everything, but plainly that was how he wished to use his things.

"It's my own fault," was the next mutter. "Foolish. Eating bread."

"I beg pardon, Sméagol?"

He looked startled and a little annoyed. It seemed he had not meant to be heard. "Bread," he said reluctantly. "It was so dry! Ach! Gollum!"

"When was it brought to you?" Dolthadis asked, thinking that the kitchen staff would need to know if something had made him ill.

"Wasn't brought. Found it."

"You found it, Sméagol?"

"Yes, yes- in rubbish. Thrown away. No one wanted it. I, I didn't want it. I wish I hadn't tried it."

Dolthadis collected her thoughts while she finished cleaning the windowsill. Then she discreetly pretended not to notice the sounds of the little creature vomiting into the basin.

She took a clean cloth from her supplies, dampened it with a little of Sméagol's drinking water and offered it to him. He took it and pressed it to his face.

"Sméagol," she said gently, "it is not healthful to eat food that has been thrown away, regardless of its kind."

"O, we have had lots of nice foods that was thrown away," he reassured her. "Never made us sick. No, it is the bread. I know I can't eat it."

"If that is so, why did you try?"

He seethed under his breath for a few moments. “Silly,” he muttered, and she decided not to pry further.

She sat with him a few minutes longer, without further conversation, until a Man arrived whom she recognized as a worker from the gardens. She stood and bowed respectfully.

"Good afternoon," he said, polite but distressed. "Is Sméagol-"

"Here, I am here," he croaked.

"A complaint of the stomach," she said. "He told me he ate bread."

"Ah, I see. He's rather delicate, I'm afraid. Thank you for having me called."

He crouched at Sméagol's side to address him at eye level. “What’s the trouble?” 

Sméagol repeated his tale as Dolthadis gathered her supplies, with the exception of her basin. For the sake of politeness she tried not to look like she was in a rush to leave, though she was anxious to be out in the fresh air.

“Was anything strange about the bread?” Faelon asked.

“It was moldy,” Sméagol said carelessly.

“Ah- in the future, perhaps you shouldn’t eat things that have mold on them,” Faelon said rather desperately. “Then too it is possible that food that’s been left out has been poisoned, to bait rats and such…”

“O, no! We can smell rat poison,” Sméagol said, almost chiding. “We knows rat poison.” The last thing Dolthadis heard as she hurried up the stairs was: “We’ve eaten poisoned rats.”

She never got her basin back.

Chapter Text

Yule was still distressing to Sméagol- there were strong smells of baking and spices everywhere, there was laughing and singing outside his window when he wanted to sleep, and people changed their habits and schedules willy-nilly without consulting him and simply were not where he expected them to be when he wanted to see them. It was better than it had been in years past, of course, there had been a time not long ago when cheer and good will in themselves gave him a headache. 

Things had changed so much in fact that for the first time in centuries he had people to give presents to, and for the first time ever he had the King's coffers to buy them with. Someone walked with him into town to the shops and helped him with the money. Sméagol could do maths well enough, but he frequently forgot how much the different coins were and what they added up into. He had no sense of how much things ought to cost, either. 

His chaperone was also useful for helping Sméagol with the wretched mittens that kept his fingers from grinding to nubs on the frozen streets, and doing up the fiddly buttons on his coat that were quite impossible to do while wearing mittens, and keeping him from getting lost in parts of the city he didn't know, and making certain that the shopkeepers knew he was not a beggar and wasn't going to steal anything. Though this last was getting to be less necessary - people recognized Sméagol.

First he had gotten a present for Frodo Baggins, of course, even though it would not be sent to him in time... if it could be sent to him at all. Still, he must get a present for the Master if he was to get a present for anyone.

"But must we for Sam?" he mused, gnawing on his nails. "He does not like Sméagol. He wouldn't want anything Sméagol gave him. He would say it smelled bad, and throw it away."

"Are you certain he would go so far as that?" his chaperone asked, a little taken aback.

This Man's name was Maeron, unfortunately enough.  He came by Sméagol's rooms every so often to give him fresh water, and where he went after that Sméagol did not know- he had never been quite certain whether Maeron was supposed to be in his quarters at all, but he was a pliant young Man and easy to- well, to bully, if Sméagol was being brutally honest. Maeron had been an obvious choice for someone who would take Sméagol to the shops now and buy whatever he was told to buy there. He had also been clever enough to figure out how to get access to Sméagol's money, which was held in trust for him as he had no idea what to do with it on his own.

"Sam would go so far as that," Sméagol said now, frowning- he had not meant his mutterings to be replied to. "He wanted us to hang, yes he did. Told us to our face."

Maeron raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

"What about the others?" said Sméagol. "The tall ones. Merry and Pippin, they was nice." He thought this over silently for a minute, and ventured: "Suppose we gets something that is for all three of them and if Sam doesn't like it he can leave it to them other two. Yes, yes, that's it."

He was at a book-seller's stand (the seller looked amused; Sméagol tried not to look at him, he so disliked feeling as if he were being laughed at). For Frodo he had picked out a history book with pictures of Elves in it. Frodo was friends with Elves. And, admittedly, Elf history was fairly eventful. Sméagol had been reading some himself in the library, when he could find anything written in Common. Elves weren't always so virtuous after all, which made them not seem quite so terrible.

Now, he pawed through the books until he found one with pictures of food- the kind of food he didn't eat. "What's this one, eh?" He flipped through. "A recipe-book. Hobbits likes food. They will all like it, we will buy it. There! That is done." And with that he could move along.

Faelon and Eardwulf were two nice Men who had been looking after Sméagol since he came to the city, and they both ought to have presents. Both still worked their own jobs as well. Faelon worked in the gardens and often had dirt under his nails, so he must need garden gloves. Sméagol made Maeron help find a pair that made sense. He himself knew next to nothing about this sort of thing.

Eardwulf was a houndmaster. Sméagol had already gotten him a little figure of a dog for his birthday, so this was a little bit more difficult. In the end he found a vest with a dog embroidered on it.

"It's tacky," Maeron said doubtfully. 

"It is not tacky," said Sméagol, who had just been through three shops without finding anything he wanted to buy and had aching feet and still more gifts to find. Also, the shops were all too bright and his eyes stung and he'd gotten a headache. "It is nice, and he'll like it, and he is not so picky as Maeron, ach! Anyway it is Sméagol's money."

"You seem as if you're not enjoying yourself. Do you want to go back?"

"I'm not done!" He shuffled off to continue browsing.

In the same store he found something else he had wanted, a nice writing-set with inks and papers that fit into a polished wooden box. This was something he didn't want to explain, and he'd been worrying about how he would get Maeron to drag him around looking for it without explaining it, and so finding it here put him in a much better mood at once. He gave it to Maeron to purchase without saying anything.

"Is this for yourself, Sméagol?" he asked. "I know you're always writing something."

"Is it allowed?" Sméagol asked. "We did not come to buy toys for ourselfs, but Sméagol sees things and he wants them."

"Yes, it is allowed- you're allowed to ask for your funds to be used however you wish."

"Good, good!" The writing set wasn't for himself, but he had never said it was, so he wasn't really lying, and he didn't want to say who it was for, so he'd just let Maeron think he was being selfish. "Now what's this, eh?" A glass bauble with a miniature of the White City inside it- how cunning! Sméagol picked it up and found that little bits of something fell about inside when it was shaken, to mimic snow. He gurgled with delight. "Boromir must have one. He must!" Maeron looked doubtful. Sméagol had not asked his opinion and did not ask it now.

He glanced about to see if perhaps there was another of these baubles. Such a clever little trinket, and the glass felt nice on his fingers... but there was no other to be seen. Well, he hadn't come here to buy things for himself. Talking about it had tempted him, that was all.

That left one more gift to buy, but nothing had seemed right for it all day. He looked around the shop. Nothing here either, and Sméagol was getting hungry, and his head throbbed. "That's it, for now, I thinks," he said. "Ach, can't buy anything for Maeron if he's with us." He waved dismissively. "He should take some of the money."

"I should?" 

"If he wants it. That can be his present." That made things easier for Sméagol, since he had no idea what the young Man did all day or what he liked.

"How much ought I to take?"

"However much he thinks is fair. He has the purse. I won't even know how much you take," he said, frowning. "I don't know what any of these coins are, or how much they are worth."

"You could get swindled very easily, making such offers."

Sméagol squinted up at him. "Of course I could," he said. "Swindle me, if you likes, I can't stop you whether I gives you permission or not. And that would be the King's problem to solve, not Sméagol's." He went outside for some fresh air without waiting for a reply. 

The King was the last person he had to get a present for, and he had no idea what to get.

He had stayed up late fretting over this problem and finding no answer. The Sun was out and bright- he ought to have been asleep hours ago. 

Sméagol in desperation opened his window, and sat there with his eyes screwed shut, whimpering. It was a cold day and the burning heat on his skin was almost welcome, but if he went out in this he'd be blind. He shivered there until he heard heavy footsteps approaching. One of the guards across the way had noticed him sitting in the window. "Good afternoon, Sméagol. You don't usually open your window when the Sun is shining. Is something troubling you?"

"I didn't get a Yuletime present for the King," he said. "Does you know the King?"

"Only slightly. I do not report to him directly. I doubt he expects a present from you."

"Of course he doesn't," said Sméagol, yanking on a lock of his own hair. it felt slimy and coarse in his hand. "He doesn't expect anything from us. He keeps us and feeds us for nothing. I has to get him something. What would a King want? He has everything! He's not like the Queen," he confided. "We had flowers sent her. Elves likes flowers." And he had been able to arrange for them to be sent by someone else, so that he did not have to see or touch them. He didn't even know which flowers had been sent. "But what does he want? Whyever did she marry him?"

"I confess I cannot help you with this trouble, wall-crawler. Perhaps you could dedicate an ode to him, I know you spend much of your time composing."

Sméagol was in no mood for jokes. He made a rude noise and the guard left. 

He went back into his room and began to look through all of his things. Perhaps something in his room would give him an idea.

"Sockses," Sméagol muttered, tapping his foot. "Not these, they wouldn't fit Sstrider. Besides, they is slimy, besides, they is ours!" He felt ridiculous for wearing socks, but the floor was icy cold in the cellar in wintertime. Men, of course, wore socks all the time. They had absurdly delicate feet. "Buy him socks? No... he has sockses. He has everything. I can't buy him anything in the City, it is his own City. Doesn't the King own everything in it already? He owns Sméagol too, ach!" 

He searched his room and muttered and began to weep from frustration. Indeed, Aragorn didn't expect or particularly desire a present from him. "Thinks we're ungrateful, gollum, gollum! Doesn't like us. Ssss, ssss. I might just make things worser for even trying to give him something." 

Yet he did not give up for hours- even when some people he didn't know came in to take his laundry for cleaning and were discomfited to find him awake. When he asked, they did not know what to give a King either. 

"This is nice," he suggested to them, holding out a riddle-toy with interlocking rings- he was provided with such things every so often when people began to think he had gotten too inventive in amusing himself and needed more things to do.

The woman he was talking to noticed at once that the toy was damaged. She gave Sméagol a dubious look. He whisked it out of sight, hopefully before she could realize those were toothmarks.

"She hasn't got any better ideas," he sulked, and went under his bed until everyone was gone.

Finally, despairing, Sméagol picked out a rock from his collection. It was a nice one, sort of greenish and shiny, with gold flecks, and he would have preferred to keep it- so it was not really a terrible gift. Not so terrible as it might have been.

"But for a King it is dreadful," he muttered. Whimpering in his throat, he scribbled a note to go with it: 

To the King from his lowly wretched servant Sméagol: I do not have anything you want or need. I do not want him to think Sméagol is ungrateful so I have chosen this to give him you it is from my collection and I found it digging along the river so it is not stolen. It is not very much but it is the best thing I can find and I hopes you do not mind it.

He wrapped the rock in this note and in his haste to be done with the whole affair he nearly threw it at Eardwulf when he came in.

Faelon and Eardwulf were delighted with their gifts. They had presents for Sméagol, too. 

Faelon gave him a book that had pictures in it. Sméagol wasn't used to having enough leisure or interest to enjoy something as simple as bright colors on a page, and he lingered over the illustrations a long time, enchanted with his own newfound capacity for innocent pleasures as much as with the pictures in their own right.

Eardwulf, who did not work in the gardens and would not be responsible for repairing any damage done to them, gave him a little shovel.

"Whatever is that for?" Sméagol asked.

"Surely you have wanted to dig farther than your hands can comfortably reach."

Sméagol was delighted, in no small part because he knew people did not like him to dig that much and now he had permission to do it at least once. He started pawing at Eardwulf's legs and chattering, which the Man fortunately took in the spirit it was intended.

Boromir got a strange look on his face when he received his present, and handed over a parcel, which Sméagol ripped open to find a nearly identical item. His delight was so great that he almost forgot to worry that Boromir looked that way because he did not like his gift.

"Tis not much of a surprise, now, I fear," said Boromir.

"Look, ha-ha! The White City in snow," said Sméagol. "Whoever thought of it? Look, there is the mountain and the Tower and all the gates that do not line up."

"You seem happy enough!"

"There was only one left when we got that one," said Sméagol.

"I suspect I had purchased the other." He picked up his own snow globe and pondered it. "A generous gift, indeed. I will treasure it."

"Yes, yes, it's very nice. Look, they put in the Great Gate that Sméagol never saw."

Boromir looked very intently at it. "They did. I had thought never to see it again."

"Of course, it's very tiny in there, isn't it?" 

"Of course." 

The two of them stared into their respective snow globes until someone came in and told Sméagol he had to go back to his room.

He wrapped up the gifts to the hobbits in a parcel, to be sent to the Shire one day. He had included the writing set in the parcel, with a note: Dear Master please give this to Baggins (Sr.) and do not tell him we sent it else he will not want it. 

Galil brought his dinner and gave him a present, a soft blanket. "We did not give her anything," he said in consternation. It smelled like her hands all over, and even an ignorant wild creature like Sméagol could tell that she'd made it herself. It had fishes embroidered on it. 

"That's perfectly alright, Sméagol," she said. "You don't need to give me anything."

"We ought to have. We forgot!" he fumed. Galil often had a kind word for him when she was the one bringing his food, and he was not devoid of the desire to make her happy, but he was more motivated by the sense that, by being caught without a present, he had lost a strange type of game that everyone was playing.

"Hush- I do not mind. Seeing you happy with my gift is reward enough. I hope you shall use it- this cellar is far too cold."

Sméagol grumbled, but didn't complain any more because she had sounded rather final about it and it had occurred to him that perhaps she would take back the blanket if he were to make the mistake of persuading her that she shouldn't have given it to him.

Galil took the cover off the tray- it was laden with meat, fish, and eggs, and a little bit of milk.

"They've given us two dinners by mistake," said Sméagol, reluctantly, being committed to honesty at this stage in life.

"Not at all," said Galil. "It is a feast day, and that is a feast."

"O! Is that so? It's on purpose, then? Well, we will take it," said Sméagol, pulling the tray towards him and touching things on it so they were now spoiled and could not be taken back if Galil were to change her mind or realize there really had been a mistake. "Yes, yes, how nice! Sweet soft fishes in winter, they spoils us, these Men. Thanks ye, we'll eat now." He did not like to be seen at the messy task of using only six broken teeth to get his food down, and no one liked to watch him at it, either, so typically whoever brought his food didn't wait around.

It took him quite some time to eat it all. Stuffed and drowsy, he went to sit for a spell in the windowsill, smelling the approach of dawn and hearing distant carols. He soon dozed off.

He woke up to find that someone had propped an open umbrella against the wall over his head. This confused Sméagol for much longer than it probably should have before he realized it had been put there to protect him from the Sun. At least- that was what it was doing in that spot, and there seemed to be no other reason to put it there. He would never get used to how solicitous these Men could be. 

"Or perhaps it is someone forgetting an umbrella," he said to himself. "We mustn't start to get it into our head that everyone is always thinking about Sméagol, my precious." But he thought everyone probably was thinking about Sméagol a lot more than he was used to being thought of. He spent a few utterly unnecessary minutes adjusting his clothing, yielding to a mysterious impulse to preen. 

There was dried egg white on his sleeve. He scowled.

As he was frowning down at his arm, he saw there was an envelope lying near him, just outside the window on the ground. He snatched it up and began to tear it open immediately- then paused- then checked to be sure it had his name on it, because otherwise he wasn't supposed to open it. 

It did have his name on it. He took it inside into the dark, where he could see better, then resumed tearing it open. (He left the umbrella where it was. He didn't know who had left it, so he couldn't return it, and he didn't want to keep it. It was as tall as he was when he stood upright, and would have been rather unwieldy.) 

Inside the envelope was a message.

Sméagol, I have received your gift and it pleases me very much. It will look well in my collection, and I will enjoy having something to remind me of a most unique and unexpected friend. In return I have enclosed a small stone that I picked up from the banks of Anduin nearer the Misty Mountains, I hope it pleases you. I selected it for its texture, as I have noticed you like to pick up your belongings and run your fingers over them. Best tidings for Yule,
Aragorn

Sméagol nodded drowsily over this, congratulating himself on how good he apparently was at giving gifts. Everyone had been so pleased, generous Sméagol! Then he blinked and squinted at the signature again. Aragorn? 

He must be mocking Sméagol. But there was indeed a stone enclosed in the envelope. It was smooth and pleasant to the fingers. Sméagol put it in his pocket and read over the letter again, looking for sarcasm or insults. 'Unique and unexpected friend', hm? An insult? No, not an insult- it seemed like a way of politely describing someone the King wanted to treat kindly but did not really like, which fit well enough and was better than making false compliments. 

He shook his head. "He is humoring us, perhaps. So then, what if he is? Better than being kicked and called nasty things, isn't it? We should keep the stone and not worry about it. Mustn't be ungrateful. After all, we didn't even think we would be alive by now, did we? We'll be alive for the new year, too; but we'll be asleep, I think." He yawned, shoved the letter into his pocket with the rock, and crawled into bed. 

Chapter Text

I felt that I must scream or die! and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—It is the beating of his hideous heart!”

Edgar Allen Poe, The Tell-Tale Heart

It had been one of those nights when everything seemed stubbornly to go wrong. It started when Sméagol was awoken before sunset. Some Men wanted something. The Men always wanted something! He had gone to them in a pleasant enough state, despite the earliness of the hour- they needed him and that knowledge made him almost gracious, these big strong Men needing Sméagol to tell them about places they could not get into. Even if they wanted him so early and would not even let him eat breakfast or bathe first.

Chapter Text

poaching

It was in the small hours of the morning when Laston discovered a set of small clothing items by the banks of the River- folded neatly and left in the grass. He found them by nearly tripping upon them when he was seeking a place to set up to fish.

He set down the equipment and turned to look about the area. He called to his brother Naston, who bounded up to him, asking: “Do you see signs of plentiful fish?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve found a child’s clothing.”

Naston studied the items. “Tis laundry, overlooked after washing-up day. Tis no business of ours, I deem.” 

“I like it not,” said Laston. “Look how the things are placed, as if someone took them off and left them here.”

"A swimmer?"

"I fear so." He looked out into the water- swift flowing and wide. "I am going to investigate a little."

Laston explored the bank for a stretch, following the current. Finding no sign of anyone in distress- or beyond distress- he returned. Naston had started fishing and was facing the River. His back was rigid and he seemed to be deliberately not looking to the right or the left.

“Your swimmer,” he said, with a motion of his head. 

A small figure was dressing in the clothing that had been left by the bank. It raised its head when Laston approached, and he saw the gleam of its eyes.

Laston stopped and did not go closer. Whatever it was had the size of a child but not the shape. “Greetings,” he said. 

“O, good morning, good morning. He gave us a start, he did.” The creature was dripping water from every inch. His tone was friendly enough. Not an orc, surely- an orc would flee.

Laston decided against his first question, which was ‘What are you’, and asked instead: “Have you been swimming? The water is high.”

“Yes, it is. Too high even for us, he is right, but we was out only a little way,” he said. “Down there- it is slower for a patch. Lots of reedses to break up the water. Fish likes it there too.” 

“I saw your clothing and was afraid someone had gone out and drowned,” said Laston. “Tis dangerous to swim alone here.”

“Is it? Nice Men, thoughtful Men. But they are here, eh? Sméagol is not alone, eh?”

From his tone, Laston felt as if he was being mocked. He frowned. “I suppose you are leaving?”

“No,” Sméagol said regretfully. “We was too slow and it’s too bright now, so we will have to stay, but we’ll be out of the Men’s way. Don’t worry about Sméagol, he can look after himself.” He reached into the long grass beside him and picked up a large carp. Laston was not overfond of the taste of carp, but it was a magnificent specimen of its kind.

“Are they biting, then?” Laston asked, leaning in for a closer look.

“Ha, ha! Sméagol is doing the biting,” he said, and took the fish away with him into the grass, and vanished.  

Laston and his brother had an underwhelming success at fishing and left for home when the sun grew warm. On their way back into the city they encountered a guardsman, who stopped them, saying: “Greetings, men; I am looking for the creature Sméagol, who was last known to be making his way to the river. I see you have been fishing. Did you meet with anyone when you were there?”

“I have seen the creature,” said Laston. He gave his equipment to Naston to carry home and went with the guard to show him the spot on the bank where Sméagol had vanished. 

“From here I know not where he went.” 

The guard began to look through the grass. “How high was the sun at the time?”

“Just clearing the horizon.”

“Quiet a moment- I hear something.”

Laston listened, and he heard it too- slow hissing breaths from somewhere low down.

The guard began to make an examination of the ground. “Here,” he said, crouching down and clearing away grasses.

There was a squeak of fright, and the guard withdrew in a hurry, shaking his hand and frowning. “I caution you not to attempt that again,” he said.

Sméagol appeared, rising up seemingly from nowhere, as if he had just been formed out of the soil itself like a creature of legend. His skin had grains of dirt and bits of grass stuck to it. “Wasn’t hurting nothing. Don’t arrest us! We was only sleeping!”

“I am not here to arrest you. I was sent to find you because you are not where you ought to be.”

Sméagol quivered, and seemed nearly to puff up like a cat. “Not where I ought, not where I ought, they says ‘Sméagol lives here and can go where he likes and he’s not shut up and he’s not in a cage’, and then when I go out it is ‘not where I ought’ and sticking handses in my face when I wants to sleep. I am where I wants to be, and I will not go with you, I won’t, I won’t!” He sank down and vanished from sight.

Laston ventured a closer look and discovered a small hole in the ground. It had been covered over with grasses but with those cleared away he could catch a glimpse of Sméagol curled up inside, blinking balefully at him before turning his face away. He happened to be clad in earth browns that matched the soil, and with the grasses to cover him he would have been nigh invisible.

“I was tasked to find him,” said the guard, “not return him.” He turned away, frowning at his hand. “I thank you for your help.” Some paces away he added: “The wretch bit me. I did not think he should be punished, as I could tell he was only frightened, and not intending harm- but I am not pleased by it.” He removed his glove and showed red marks beneath. The skin was unbroken, thanks to the glove, but there would be a bruise.

Laston found a different place to fish from then on.

At least, until he and his brother figured out that Sméagol had an unerring ability to detect where the most fish were (likely because he dove into the River and scouted them out), and it was wise to set up near wherever he had chosen to be; over time Sméagol’s presence became a magnet for fishermen and he learned to show himself only when he wanted company. But all of that took some time.

tax fraud

It had been a tiring day at work. Part of it was nerves- Maeron had not yet come to believe in his heart that Lord Denethor would truly never again come in unannounced to personally check procedures and ensure that the clerks were filing things correctly. It was not as if they were to be left to their own devices- Lord Faramir had already been by once to perform the same duty; however, although he had asked for something to be redone, his manner was such that even the mistakes made under his eye were better rewarded than perfection under the eye of his father.

It was past dark and almost time to leave. There was only one person left in the line at his desk, a shabbily-dressed sort that Maeron had dismissed earlier in the day with a request to bring his petition back in writing. The man was not literate, but there were many in the marketplace who would write up documents for a small fee. 

He clutched a scroll now, a shockingly grubby scroll. “I’ve got it,” he asserted, offering the object, which Maeron took gingerly by the edges. 

The handwriting was odd- blocky and childish. It looked familiar. Actually it reminded him of Sméagol’s handwriting. It had been long since Maeron had looked in on the creature, and although their encounters were often awkward they were more interesting than being in the office.

Of course Sméagol surely had nothing to do with it and the resemblance to his manner of writing was a coincidence. Yet as soon as he told himself this, he noticed a spot where ‘we’ had been crossed out and replaced with ‘I’. There were many in Minas Tirith with bad handwriting, but fewer who habitually used 'we' instead of 'I'.

“Which of our scribes wrote this up, may I ask?” he asked.

“Ah! Twas passing strange, sir. I went to the market, but the stalls were all closing up. And I walked to the shops, thinking someone might be there, but I had no luck, and then I came upon him, sir, a tiny old man sitting in the alley.” 

“Ah,” said Maeron.

“He asked what made me ‘fret and frown so’. I told him I needed a scribe and had found none, and he told me he could write, and would gladly write whatever needed, and he didn’t even take a fee, sir.”

Maeron wondered if Sméagol’s minders knew where he was, or if he’d simply vanished on them again. Fortunately it was none of his business. “I see,” he said simply, and filed the document. It seemed to be of acceptable quality, even if there were a few misspellings. Not bad work for a wild Halfling who’d been raised on a riverbank. 

Actually, Sméagol should have taken a fee for the work, he thought. His handwriting might not be much to look at, but surely his time was of some value. Perhaps Maeron would tell him so.

trespassing

Tinnor woke before dawn and started making his breakfast. As he was frying the bacon he heard a tap on the door. Opening it, he saw a tiny, stooped figure in a hood and short cloak, rumpled but in good condition. 

“Good morn to thee,” Tinnor said, suspecting the little one had smelled the bacon and come to beg. If so he would surely not refuse a child a bit of the food, especially not one so thin, no matter how expensive the fabric of his cloak might look.  

“Good morning, good morning,” the figure quavered. “We was- I was wondering if perhaps- he is going out for the day?”

A would-be robber perhaps- the most pathetic one he could imagine. “Not at all, I work at the forge, which is in my home.”

“O- we thought- never mind, then.” 

“Here,” said Tinnor, “do you want food?”

“Food? We might, perhaps, what’s he got, eh?” The creature peered up at him. There was an odd glint from under the hood.

“One moment. Might I have a better look at thy face, little one?”

“Ach! Well, he did ask us nicely, didn’t he? Very well.” He pulled back the hood. The face underneath was sickly and gaunt, and clearly not that of a child. 

An ill old man, perhaps. There was enough bacon for him too, Tinnor decided. “Wilt thou share some bacon?”

“Is it meat?”

“Yes.”

“I wilt, yes, but- only if it is not yet cooked,” said the stranger. “Can’t eat it otherwise. No sense wasting it.”

Tinnor raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, yes, it is so odd, it is not natural,” the stranger lamented. “It is nasty. I cannot help it.”

“As it happens I have not fried it all.” The stranger looked frail. Tinnor decided it was unkind to make him continue to sit out on the step. “Wilt thou step inside?”

“If he does not mind. But I musst draw the hood again. My eyes are very tender in lights, and we can’t bear his candleses.” He pulled down the hood low over his face.

Tinnor recalled tales he had heard of monstrous half-orcs. They were said to have all of the strengths of Men and Orcs, with none of the weaknesses. This little one seemed to have the physical difficulties of the Orcish race and the lonesomeness of Men. Perhaps he was a botched half-orc, a failed prototype, like a shattered bit of metal that had been hammered at the wrong angle at the wrong moment. In any case, the stranger was polite and wore no weapon. 

“Dress however thou likest,” Tinnor said. “Step in here.” He noticed the stranger also avoided the lit fireplace, and sat down on the floor, ignoring the chairs. “Why didst thou ask if I would be leaving?”

“Did we? Did we ask? We wouldn’t like to pesster and prod at him, no, and Sméagol does not want to be a bother to anyone, only we- I losst track of the time and the Sun is coming, and I am tired. Very silly of us- I’ve gotten so weak,” he lamented. “I used to be able to walk for weekses on end without sleeping if I wished it. But I feel I must rest. So I thought if he was not going to be home today he might not mind if I slept on his floor while he was out. But he will not go out, he says. We would be in the way.”

“Hmm.” Tinnor had caught a glimpse of the stranger’s teeth- they were large but sparse, which explained the whistling and hissing in his voice, perhaps. “Why didst thou choose my door to knock on?” He began to cut the raw bacon into small pieces. 

“He was awake, and he has a cellar. I saw the hatch. It is cool and dark in cellars.”

“If I turn thee away wilt thou approach another home?”

“Perhaps, or- perhaps not, eh? Perhaps it would only be a bother? I don’t wish to bother anyone. They will start to say ‘it is Sméagol, the filthy little nuissance’ and walk around corners when they sees us coming.”

“Then what willst thou do?”

“O, we will jusst have to be lonely,” he sighed.

Tinnor clarified. “What willst thou do if I turn thee away?”

“Sleep in a little corner somewhere, I suppose. It is my own fault, being caught out so late. Sss! The Sun rises at the same time every morning, doesn’t it?”

Tinnor sat down the bacon in front of him. “I shall be in my forge today, not in the cellar. It wouldn’t inconvenience me for thee to sleep there.” 

“It won’t?” 

“Surely it will inconvenience me less than the thought of thee sleeping out in the street.”

“Good, kind Man, gollum! We’ll remember him to the King and all, we will, such a nice Man- gollum! But he must wish something in return? Has he any ratses or mice?”

“I do not.”

“Perhaps he needs something dug,” the stranger persisted. “Or buried. Or un-buried. Or found- or lost forever.”

“Not at the moment. If thou hast a desire to repay me I might consider that thou owest me a favor.”

A strange look came over his strange small face. “A favor. A promise. Tricksy things, favors and promises.”

“Art thou reconsidering?”

“No. No, we will owe him. Yes. Sméagol is not a beggar.” He sniffed at the bacon and timidly tried a piece. “It is delectable!”

“Good,” said Tinnor, and sat down across the stranger- Sméagol, it seemed- with his own breakfast. They began an uncomfortable ritual of each trying not to watch the other eat. 

“What is a forge?” Sméagol ventured. 

From him, it did not seem an odd question. “It is where I make tools and things out of metal.”

“Ah-h-h. Yes, that’s it, we’ve heard it before. He makes swordses?” 

“Swordses. Daggerses. Shieldses. Armor, too- but not so commonly any more. Weapons are not my specialty and during ordinary times I am not often called on to make them. Nowadays I am freer to make tools and cookware, and others are freer to buy them.”

“Yes, yes. We have seen those things made before, but not in the land of Gondor. In- not nice places. Not at home, never. Back where Sméagol was borned and grown, his people did not make anything out of metal. They bought it, if they needed it. Traded it. Found it. But most times they did not need it. There were woods and grasses and reeds. There were stones, I think, for cooking. And no swordses for anyone, not even many knives. There was no fighting like Men fight. No war.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not until I…” He trailed off and looked wretched.

“Wouldst thou like to see a forge of Gondor before thou goest down to lay thy head in my root cellar?”

“Yes, yes!”

So Tinnor took him through and showed him what to every Gondorman were ordinary things, not meriting a second look. To Sméagol they were objects of wonder, and he even shied in fear at some of them- the tongs, the pliers, and some links he mistook for shackles. Smithly patiently explained what everything was and what it was for, and made it clear that nothing in his forge was for a sinister purpose. The tongs were for handling hot metal, and the hot metal was for shaping- not putting against skin (the poor wretch)! 

After the tour he gave the yawning creature a cup of water, a blanket and a straw tick in the cellar. He seemed shocked and delighted to be given bedding, and again effusively promised to put in a good word with the King. He was clearly quite mad. He slept the day away in the cellar, as promised, and left in the evening, slipping out the back while Tinnor was discussing things with a customer.

Tinnor, being a busy man, had nearly forgotten about the incident when an emissary from the King arrived at his doorstep a few days later to reward him for his generosity- with coin.

loitering

Twas a frigid night and Lossiel was sitting by the fire sewing when she saw Sméagol for the first time. 

She knew he lived in the Sixth Circle and visited public buildings, and in fact she was sitting in the great hall of the guest-house he had one lived in. She had been prepared that one day she would see him, but having him before her in the flesh was quite different from her imaginings. He wore a hood against the chill, and she only saw glittering eyes beneath it and a sharp, rather delicate chin. His figure was bent and twisted. She thought he must be in pain- no one, surely, could look that way and not feel pain.

“Greetings,” she said, managing a measure of warmth. 

“Greetings, greetings! Ach, but it is a freezing and frosty night, the ice is in our poor old bones. Will Sméagol be very much in the way if he slips in near her fire? Not very near. It is too hot and bright for us, but it will melt the ice from back here, perhaps.”

“You are welcome to rest here, Sméagol. Do you wish me to draw you a chair?”

“O no.” He was nearly cooing. “We doesn’t need her to go to any trouble. A patch of floor is all Sméagol needs. Yes, this patch here. She mustn’t step on us, that’s all we asks.”

“I shall be mindful.” 

He settled down into a little heap of rags, seeming so genuinely pleased with the floor that she did not offer the chair a second time. She kept to her sewing, feeling as if she had had a successful first encounter with the creature- but she rather hoped he did not want to talk very much. 

He didn’t seem to desire conversation at all. He dozed near the fire, as any elderly soul might. The sound of his sleepy breathing managed to be rather comforting.

She fell into a bit of a reverie with the rhythm of her sewing, and was startled when the second visitor came- Carvedir. He stamped in with a swish of his cape as if the winter was an insult to him personally, and almost stepped on Sméagol.

“Careful!” Lossiel said. 

“Oh! Whatever is that?”

“Some clothing that needs to be mended.” This was in fact true- she had merely left out that someone was wearing the clothing.

“It smells foul.” Carvedir sat down heavily in a chair near her. 

Lossiel said nothing.

“I am a victim of sabotage,” he said. She did not encourage him, but he continued: “Many days I have petitioned the King to speak to me of the War. Does he receive me?”

She said nothing. He continued: “He does-“

“Ah.” 

“But he will not speak of the Ring-bearer, or his servant, or even of Lord Boromir, but he speaks of the landscape. He has told me in depth of the river and the rocks that lie between here and Imladris. I could travel the way myself. Tis a cunning game he plays. And then he has sent me to speak to Lord Boromir.”

“Truly,” she ventured, “it sounds as if he was cooperating.”

“Our captain-general told me nothing that was not public!”

“Perhaps he withheld nothing from the people.” A motion behind Carvedir caught her eye. Sméagol was stirring. He yawned, showing a flash of fangs. “What of your talk with Lord Denethor?” she asked.

Carvedir made a frustrated sound. “Twas plain at once that he did not wish to answer questions, but to ask them, and then to amuse himself by talking in circles and turning my head ‘round.” 

“Your visit cheered him, I am sure.”

“Why do our King and nobility not wish to aid me? I would be complimentary to their deeds. If I achieve greatness, so will they. And what of Sméagol?” Carvedir demanded. 

“What of him, brother?”

“A commoner, I am told, with no family, no nation of his own, no standing, and who has a habit of going about making himself pleasant to strangers, and bothering people who have no time for him. Yet when I wish to speak with him I am told I must make a formal petition to the houndmaster. The houndmaster! What has the houndmaster to do with it? I hear one of our painters was told the same thing, when he wished to take Sméagol’s likeness- and he was refused! He was told not to go near the creature!”

Lossiel continued to sew. She resisted looking at Sméagol, not wishing to draw Carvedir’s attention to him. She noted from the corner of her eye that a dark shape like a shadow was flitting to the door.

“I only need a few moments with him,” said Carvedir. “No other lay speaks of him. No paintings include him. I would have something quite new if only he would speak to me.”

It seemed quite clear, just from the fact that no one else had managed to get an interview, that Sméagol spoke to no one, sat for no portraits and told no tales to those who wished to repeat them. She didn’t know why Carvedir thought he would be an exception.

Sméagol had managed to open the door noiselessly, but as he went through it the wind caught it and it slammed behind him.

“What was that?” Carvedir asked. 

“I am not sure.”

Carvedir went to the door and threw it open. “I see no one.” 

That was not a surprise. The creature was probably halfway back to his quarters.

Carvedir came back and returned to his litany against all who he saw as obstructing his desire to become famous by recounting the War of the Ring in a way different from the exhaustive coverage that had already been done. She waited for him to leave.

bail jumping

Heriadis entered the square and noted suddenly that it was not empty as she had thought. Some kind of dark-furred animal was nearby, peering at a poster that was nailed to the wall. A dog, she thought, and one that seemed over-large to her. She had been badly bitten by a dog as a child and still struggled to trust them even if they were well-behaved, and this one seemed agitated. She gave it a wide berth but then she heard it speaking.

“No, no,” it said, “ach!” Another look revealed that what she had taken for fur was clothing, but whatever the creature was it stood on all fours. Yet as she watched it reared up onto its hind legs and pawed at the poster- with a hand like a Man’s hand. Then it turned to look at her. “Ss! You, yes you, come here- come! Come!”

She was so perplexed that she took a few steps towards this odd figure.

“Sss, sss,” it grumbled. “She is lucky today. Yes, she is lucky today! There is a reward out. And why should we go back ourselfs and the nice lady not get anything? She must take us home, it will not take long and they will pay her for it. Sss.”

She looked at the poster. 

MISSING: There is a reward for the return of one Sméagol to the Sixth Circle. 

That was all. There was no description, nor even an explanation of what a Sméagol was, which struck her as odd.

“Sss, sss. We have only been gone a day, and we left a note- such a fuss, my precious.” He tore down the poster and shoved it into his pocket, glowering. It had been posted low down enough that he could get at it though he was small of stature, and that too was odd. “But there is a reward, and she must lead us home and take it, or else no one will get it, or someone will grab us and make us go in order to get it- ach! What was they thinking?” He moved away a little, and then gave her a commanding look over his shoulder. “Come!”

She had errands to attend to, and considered refusing- but then she was curious- and her errands could wait- and perhaps there was a reward. She followed him towards the Sixth Circle. He trotted along briskly at first, so that he almost left her behind, but he soon slowed. She noted that he was favoring one paw- or perhaps it was a hand. His anatomy confused her and she did not want to give it a closer inspection.

“We’re tired, aren’t we, walking about all night,” he sighed. He gave her an appraising look, frowned a little, and said: “But that’s not any trouble of hers,” and looked away. He spoke no more- it seemed he needed to save his breath.

The guards at the gate stepped forward at the sight of them. Heriadis hesitated. Sméagol sat up beside her. “We’ve come back,” he said. “The lady brought us, so they will reward her, they says.”

One of the guards raised an eyebrow at her, and said very solemnly: “Indeed.” 

The other guard turned aside, waving towards a passing young man. “Maeron! Come hither.”

Maeron trotted up with a wary expression. The guard indicated Sméagol.

“Oh,” said Maeron, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve come back, I see.” 

“We can find our way home ourselfs,” Sméagol fumed, but he followed when Maeron beckoned. 

The guards turned to her. “My lady,” one said, “you have our thanks, but I confess your reward is not yet decided. In fact, the notes were posted to induce him to return on his own- we expected Sméagol to draw the conclusion that if he turned himself in he could claim his own bounty.”

“He did return on his own,” said Heriadis. “He insisted that I come along so that I could claim the reward.”

The guard smiled. “I see. So he has either learned generosity or forgotten cunning. You will still be rewarded- the Steward does not make false promises. But there will be a delay; if you leave your information with me you will be contacted in a day or so.”

“Very well.” She told him where she lived, and then ventured: “What manner of creature is Sméagol?”

“I know not,” said the guard. “I am not sure he knows the answer himself. I bid you good evening.”

Chapter Text

Eardwulf donned a thick leather vest, tough and impervious to teeth and grappling hands. A pair of gloves hung on the wall near where he kept the vest. These he picked up and considered. They were somewhat worse for the wear, having been well-used. They bore teeth marks. 

“Now here is a dilemma!” he said to Argument, who happened to be sitting close at hand, watching him with sober and solemn eyes. The animal ought to be in the kennels on the floor below, with the dog-boys, but he had somehow or other ended up in Eardwulf’s sleeping quarters, as the hounds regularly managed to do. There were two more nearby, Bragger and Worrywart, panting amiably.

Argument’s tail tapped on the floor, slowly and deliberately, to show that he was listening. 

“Our polliwog has caught on to me,” said Eardwulf. “If he sees me wear these gloves again, he will believe I wear them because I do not trust him not to bite me.”

Argument showed with his eyes that the troubles of Man were weighty and unfathomable things. 

Eardwulf spread his hands in a shrug. “What can I say for myself? I wear them ‘just in case’. Just in case of what? In case he is in a foul temper or has a pain, and cannot restrain himself from nipping at my hand, which is a cowardly way of saying that, indeed, I do not trust him not to bite me. Now what is my duty, my friend? Is it to preserve my hands from the indignity of Sméagol’s love-nips, or is it to tend the destroyer of Isildur’s Bane at least as well as I tend my dogs? I would not insult you by wearing gauntlets around you.”

Argument was so intent upon him that Eardwulf nearly expected him to nod his assent. 

“I believe the answer is plain enough,” said Eardwulf. He tossed his gloves to the dogs for them to chew on. 

Sometimes he arrived at Sméagol’s quarters to find his charge drowsing over breakfast, or even still asleep, but it looked as if today was a wakeful day. Sméagol was outside of the building, sitting by the guard post at the door. Suilorion was on duty and a chessboard sat between them on the table. Sméagol hunched over the board, one fist pressed to his mouth, his pale eyes fixed on the pieces. He sputtered, muttered to himself, counted squares on the board, and tugged at his thin hair while Suilorion looked on benevolently. 

Eardwulf had seen him play chess before- Faelon had taught him the game, fearing that Sméagol had too little to occupy himself, and when those two played together, Sméagol tranquilly lost every game.

Not so now. Sméagol finally picked up one of the red pieces, hesitated, and set it down on the board, exhaling through his nose. Eardwulf himself did not play chess and knew little about it. He could not tell from the board which of the two was closer to winning. Nor could he judge how long the game might have been going on, but next to Sméagol on the table sat a nearly empty plate, with traces of blood and bits of gristle on it. Sméagol preferred not to be seen eating, but it seemed he had taken breakfast out here. If he had been willing to eat in front of Suilorion it was probably because the game was already in progress when the food was brought and Sméagol was so interested in it that he could not bear the interruption.

Suilorion looked at the board as if it were a distant object he was paying only the barest attention to. He moved a white piece without a moment of consideration. Sméagol sat upright and hissed sharply. Eardwulf could not tell whether it was a hiss of despair or triumph.  

Suilorion saw him then and raised in greeting the claw that had replaced one of his hands after a long-ago skirmish. “Hail, Eardwulf!”

Sméagol looked up with a start. “Eardwulf, so it is! He’s come to help Sméagol, and we mustn’t keep him waiting, ha, ha! He has such lotses else to do, he does. No time for waiting. We’ll take the board now, yes, and we can finish later.” He took the chessboard into his hands. “Yes- I will be busy now a long time, of course, so- so I will play with Sss- Sss- Sssu- the nice old man the next time he sits out here, and when will that be?”

As he talked, he awkwardly braced himself for a hop down from his chair, which was rather high for him, and shook his head to ward off Eardwulf reaching to help him with the board, and successfully made his hop while keeping the board level and not using his hands to help him- though he looked a bit strained.

“I am scheduled again… three days hence!” said Suilorion.

Sméagol blanched. “Three dayses? Ach! Yes- yes, nice Man. Yes. Three days.” Muttering under his breath, he carried the chessboard inside. Sméagol could indeed walk upright a way- hunched and shuffling, but on two legs, which let him carry things in both hands when he felt the need, but it never looked very comfortable for him. Eardwulf followed him closely inside, wishing to be at hand to catch him if he stumbled or grew dizzy. 

Sméagol carefully set the chessboard on the table inside and sank to all fours, shuddering. His loose housecoat had slipped down around his shoulders and neck, exposing the bony planes of his upper back. 

“Good evening, Sméagol,” said Eardwulf. “How are you feeling tonight?”

“Not well. Tired. We did not sleep much, not today. Nasty things from long ago crowding into Sméagol’s head and waking him up.”

Eardwulf repressed a wince. ‘Nasty things’ was an inadequate way to describe what he had likely been remembering. “That is a shame. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Nothing he wasn’t doing already,” said Sméagol. “We wants our bath.”

“Then there is no point my standing around here.” Eardwulf pulled down the empty washtub from the top of the nearby cabinet. 

Sméagol rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. 

Eardwulf went outside and filled the washtub at the well, which was not very far away. This time when he re-entered the building he remembered to nod politely towards Suilorion. The old veteran did not seem to have noticed. Eardwulf decided not to try to get his attention, he didn’t want to risk Suilorion delaying him with conversation- he never quite knew what to say to him.

When he returned with the full tub he found Sméagol sitting on top of the cabinet in the spot where the empty tub was kept, dangling his thin legs over the edge and swinging his large flat feet. 

“Why, Sméagol!” said Eardwulf, setting down the full tub in a particular spot towards the wall, where there was a grate in the floor. “However did you get up there?”

Sméagol snorted. “He is not the one who said the tub should be up here, eh?”

“No, and whoever thought so was some type of fool who thinks we try to keep things out of your reach in your own home, and has never heard the guards call you Wall-climber, and was wretchedly inconsiderate to me as well in choosing such a place, and is likely at least a full head taller than myself.”

“Then don’t put it back up here! Put it wherever you likes, and whoever wants it up here so badly can put it back hisself if he musst.”

“I have half a mind to do just that.”

Sméagol scrambled down from his perch and shed his housecoat into a cloth-puddle on the floor. It was much too large for him, which was no doubt why he found it so comfortable. It was never intended to be his- it was accidentally mixed into Sméagol’s laundry. Before someone could retrieve it, Sméagol had found it in his wardrobe with his things, and had already started enthusiastically wearing it. He had thought it was a present. After all, it was in his wardrobe, where new items of clothing appeared from time to time without anyone letting him know in advance.

Eardwulf was of the opinion that Sméagol’s odd, heavy sweat could be washed out of fabric, and the odor of him would surely be faint after only a brief wearing- it was foolishness to act as if his touch ruined cloth beyond repair. But whether others disagreed, or whether they simply did not feel that the matter was worth disappointing Sméagol over, he had been allowed to keep the housecoat. Then he had altered it to suit him, tearing the sleeves to make them shorter and free his hands. Now the garment really was ruined. 

Sméagol slipped into the tub and began turning about carefully to keep from splashing any water out.

“The floor is waterproof,” Eardwulf reminded him. “Do as you wish.” He walked a few paces away to give his charge a bit of privacy. It would be unkind to leave Sméagol alone in the bath- sometimes he tipped it over and needed it to be refilled, and sometimes he started scrubbing his skin raw or raking it with his nails and had to be stopped. And it would be unwise to give him a large container of water and leave him unsupervised to do as he pleased with it. But on most evenings there was no incident. He did not need to be stared at.

Instead Eardwulf studied the chessboard. It told him little. “I see you were playing a game,” he remarked.

“Sss, sss.”

“Was I interrupting?”

“No! Yes. Of course he was. But I needs more time to think, so I was glad for it. Yes, I was glad to see him.”

“I’m glad to see you too. Do you think three days won’t be enough to decide on your next move, Sméagol?”

“No,” said Sméagol. “Of course, it would be more than enough, if we thought about it the whole time, but we will not be thinking about it all the time. We may forget to think about it until he comes back.”

“That is true enough, but it may not help if you had more time, in that case. I know nothing about chess, but Faelon may have advice for you if you show this to him when he comes to visit in the morning.”

“Ha, ha! Yes, Faelon.”

“Why do you laugh?”

“Faelon is not very good at it,” Sméagol said. “No, he’s not very good at all, the nice young Man. But he is so serious!”

Eardwulf had suspected Sméagol was taking his losses entirely too well. “I see. Indeed, he is serious. So have you been letting him win?” 

“Yes, whyever not? He is so young. Tender like little blind chickses in the nest, he is.”

“Perhaps,” said Eardwulf, after pausing a moment to connect the image of a blind chick in the nest with Faelon’s eager face. Faelon was a strong young Man with shoulders perhaps as broad as Sméagol was tall (when he stood to his full height, which he did rarely), and yet Eardwulf felt the comparison was not inappropriate. “I think he’d be pleased that you know the game better than he taught you already, however, rather than feel dismayed that you defeated him.” In fact he thought Faelon might be the sort of person who didn't even want to win.

“O, he only reminded us, not taught us from fresh,” Sméagol said carelessly. “Gran taught us to play. It is an old game. But I did not like it when she taught me. Boring, I said. Stupid little tadpole that we was.” 

These self-insulting remarks were fairly new, and becoming more frequent, and Eardwulf did not like them much. For the time being he was simply acting as if he did not hear them. “It seems you don’t mind winning against Suilorion.”

“Ha, ha! Not at all. We did win the first game. Yes, we won fair! Then he beat us the second time, gollum! It is two out of three so I musst win the last. I must!”

“Did you wager?” 

“Yes, yes, yes. If he wins, we has to play whatever games he wants for his next night that he works here. He’s always asking us to play, but Sméagol doesn’t like many games.” 

“What if you win?”

Sméagol answered in haste: “Nothing nasty, nothing nasty! No tricks! If we wins Suilorion must give us a button.”

“Is it a shiny button?”

“I hasn’t seen it,” said Sméagol. “It is in his pocket. It may not be very nice, but it doesn’t matter, it is only a part of the game, the wager.” He sloshed about in the water. “We heard something, yesterday, eh, or the day before perhaps, and we did not understand it. Might we ask?” 

“Of course.”

“Sméagol heard someone say it was not nice to wager. That is not quite what she said- I don’t remember her words, but she did not like it. Is it not nice to wager? Is it rude, my precious? It is what we always did back home, and Sméagol doesn’t see any harm in it, but he will stop doing it if the tall Men with bright eyes thinks it is bad manners. And I don’t mean to listen. We don’t want to. But I-“

“You need not apologize to me, otter-hobbit,” said Eardwulf. He was interrupting, but he disliked to hear Sméagol’s tone becoming thin and desperate. “I know you do not mean to listen, but your hearing is keen and the words of others reach them whether you will or no.” So the creature had explained many a time, sometimes through tears. “But if these are words you overheard, it seems she was not speaking of your wagers on games.”

“No,” said Sméagol. “Of course it is not nice to make someone promise anything nasty because of a game.” His voice was so small and contrite. 

“No, it isn’t nice to force someone into a promise you know you ought not to require,” said Eardwulf, who was not sure what to make of the story of the riddle-game and privately thought that Sméagol had experienced that type of promise from both ends. “I think you are close to what she really meant. Most people when they speak of wagering and gambling mean they are betting sums of money they are bound to lose, and if they cannot afford to lose it and bet it anyway, their acts are foolhardy and selfish- especially if others are relying on that money as well as themselves. Some even steal money from others in order to wager it.”

“O! I sees. Yes, that’s what she meant, we thinks. That is it.”

“And that is hardly the same as wagering for a button, a shiny stone or a promise that is of the harmless kind, so you need not worry about it.”

“Yes, yes.” 

“Although,” said Eardwulf, “I should caution you to use discretion when you tell others you like to wager, and to explain what you’re wagering if the subject comes up.”

“We will, we will! If we tells at all. None of their business what we likes.” 

“None of their business at all.”

“Sss, sss, sss. What gameses does Eardwulf like?” 

It was surely a sign of health when he took an interest in the lives of other people, so Eardwulf was sorry when he didn’t have interesting answers to Sméagol’s polite questions. “I am afraid I do not play many games of any sort- I spend my life in work.”

“O. Sméagol is such a bother,” the creature hummed.

“I hope you do not think my hour or so spent with you a day is keeping me from anything,” said Eardwulf. He couldn’t tell whether that comment was self-degradation or if Sméagol was pleased to be thought of as worth others’ time, but he may as well give an honest explanation. “Rather my time is spent in the instructing of dogs, and assistants to care for dogs. And supplying the dogs. And making desperate attempts to acquire more dogs- many died in the war.” He did also have people coming to him every so often throughout the day to discuss something Sméagol had been doing, or was not doing, or should have done, or would be expected to do, but he did not think it prudent to say so at the moment.

“The war! They killed the dogses in the war? Whatever was the dogs doing to get mixed up in the war?”

“There was… an attempt to use my dogs to track orcs and other enemies,” Eardwulf said. It had been Lord Denethor’s idea, which Eardwulf would not say, because even though the project had done some good he could not speak of it without bitterness and Sméagol did not need help to dislike people. “It caused many of my animals to perish. If you ever spot a likely-looking puppy when you are out and about in the City, Sméagol, I would be grateful to hear of it.”

“Yes, of course! Sméagol sees things in the city, sometimes, yes. But we do not know dogs, not well. What makes a puppy likelier than another? Does it wriggle more, is it softer? Does it wave its paws more and squeak louder? Does it roll over faster?” His tone was in earnest.

Eardwulf was careful not to smile at the little creature’s idea of the worthiness of hounds, because Sméagol did not yet understand a fond smile and was prone to think he was being mocked, which would hurt his feelings dreadfully. 

Instead Eardwulf calmly said: “I would think my time well spent inspecting any puppy, so do not be timid- but one that is either especially intelligent or especially calm is best. If it seems particularly friendly to you, that is a good sign.” 

“Sss, ss. Friendly, eh? Dogses does not like Sméagol much. Cats does. I don’t know why they does, or what is it they likes… But what about when he was a boy? Did he like any games then, before he went to work? I did not have time for very much when I was… ss-ssearching.” He still could not speak of any subject that so much as hinted at Isildur’s Bane without tight pain in his voice. Perhaps he never would. “But now, I has time to think, and I remembers things that I used to do, or wished to do, or never had chances to do.”

“It’s good to have time to think.”

“Yes, so what does he think he likes?”

Sméagol would not be deterred, it seemed. Eardwulf was often expected to know the creature’s mind, by guardsmen or housekeeping staff or the King or a host of others who had to deal with Sméagol; but he did not know it. He had never anticipated the comment about Faelon being a blind baby bird, for example. Now he did not know whether Sméagol was merely curious or was asking because he wanted to play and was hoping for a certain answer- and then, to be truthful, there was no ‘mereness’ about his curiosity; it burned brightly and would not be easily turned aside. 

“I have not had as much time to think as I would like, little one,” said Eardwulf. “At least, I have not thought on that subject. Allow me a day or so to ponder.” 

Sméagol was sitting with his back turned to him in the bath, looking up over his shoulder, and his solemn pale eyes gave no hint of his thoughts. “O very well! Men thinks slowly, eh?”

“It is because we are too tall, and thoughts take a while to sift down from our heads,” said Eardwulf. 

“Ha, ha! Perhaps.”

Eardwulf looked back at the chessboard. Sméagol had left finger-smudges on it. They could easily be wiped away, and everyone has left finger-smudges at one time or another. Eardwulf did not think these smudges were dirtier than anyone else’s. Especially not when the creature bathed twice a day and fastidiously washed his hands between meals, or after he had touched the floor, or for no apparent reason at all.

“Eardwulf?” He turned, expecting to be called into service. Instead: “What is this piece of a tube in the wall just here? It looks like it was stuck in while they was making the wall. What is it for?”

“I know not. I can’t see it as well as you can, you must remember.” The room was dim with fading evening light. Sméagol and his tub were tucked into a shadowed area. 

Eardwulf had a guess, however. This building, which had formerly been a kitchen, had once had running water in it. He suspected Sméagol had noticed the remnant of a pipe. There was talk of reconnecting the water and giving Sméagol his own faucet- it would not be unreasonably difficult, and it would improve matters to give him free access to water, as he needed a great deal of it and had to have it brought frequently throughout night and day; but there were no definite plans yet. Builders were yet busy elsewhere with more urgent things, and of course- Sméagol would flood his quarters at least once. Twas inevitable. He would be too excited by having his own faucet to resist the urge to see how much water he could get to come out of it, and he would quickly figure out how to stop up the drains no matter what anyone tried to do to them to make them unstoppable. No one was ready to deal with that, nor with trying to do an intricate project in his quarters, where he could investigate the supplies and touch things and ‘borrow things just for a little look at them’ and grow angry with the amount of noise being made in his living area- because, unless the workers were made to work in the darkest part of the night, they would be working while Sméagol was trying to sleep. 

Therefore, Sméagol could not be told of the idea, for it may only raise his hopes only to dash them. That would do him no good. 

“It looks like a pipe from the sewer,” Sméagol mused. “Or even a piece of the fountainses…”

Sméagol was fascinated with the city fountains and had been asking people how they worked. If he learned the basics of what plumbing was, it was not beyond his abilities to figure out for himself that his house had once been connected to the city cisterns, and to begin to ask whether it could be re-connected. Especially if he went outside and dug up the pipe connected to the wall to see where it led.

“I’ve brought you a present,” said Eardwulf. He had had enough self control to hold this back until the little one needed distracting, though in fact he had purchased it in the morning and been conscious of it all day. 

It worked immediately. “A present? For Sméagol? Whatever is it?”

Of course distracting Sméagol was only a temporary measure. He would be left to his own devices eventually, and would remember the pipe, and would start to investigate it at leisure- but that would be a trouble for later. “I shall show you when you’re done in the bath.”

“Done now.”

“Good!” There was no need to ask if he was really clean. Sméagol was not really in need of being cleaned. He had a serious bath in the morning before he went to sleep, and when he woke up in the evening it was not as if he had picked up a layer of dirt while resting in bed. The evening bath was mostly brought because he enjoyed the feel of the water and because it soothed his aches. “Do you want me to bring you your clothing or will you go downstairs to dress?”

“Downstairs, if he pleases.”

Eardwulf took a towel out of the cabinet. 

Sméagol balked. “No, no, not yet! First he must help us rinse.”

Of course Sméagol did not need to be rinsed. He did not use soap- none had been found that did not blister his skin. But he greatly enjoyed the sensation of cold water being ladled up and poured over his head. Eardwulf grabbed the ladle. 

When he was rinsed to his satisfaction Sméagol asked: “Help us downstairs?” 

He held out his hands to be picked up. His hands and feet looked a little too large for his gaunt body, and Eardwulf was always put in mind of a puppy that had not grown into its paws. 

Eardwulf wrapped him in the towel and lifted him in his arms, holding Sméagol close to his chest. Perhaps it was only over-hopeful thinking, but he thought Sméagol was getting a little heavier. He had quickly put on weight when first brought to the City and properly fed, but then he had stopped while still quite thin.  

Sometimes Eardwulf felt as if he were monitoring the growth of a child, one that was always in a range of dim-to-pitch-black lighting and favored clothing that hid the form and face, and did not much want to be monitored. He carefully placed the palm of his hand against Sméagol’s back. His bones were close to the skin and could be felt even though the thick towel. Eardwulf had not known this when he was wearing the gloves. 

“What did you have for breakfast?” Eardwulf asked. He carried the wriggling, damp bundle to the stairs. 

Opening the door to the cellar let out a musty odor, which Eardwulf thought of as being rather like the scent of a wet dog or the bedding of an animal: he did not particularly mind it himself and sometimes suspected those who could not abide it of being over-squeamish. 

“Sss, sss, it was mutton, we thinks,” Sméagol muttered. He had a way of folding himself up into a neat little parcel when he had consented to be carried. He had contrived to make himself almost cube-shaped. He was not clutching Eardwulf’s vest today. It seemed that he had finally decided Eardwulf would not drop him.

“Was there only meat or were you given the fat as well?” Eardwulf was accustomed to supervising what his charges ate and feeding them with his own hand whenever possible, but Sméagol was not a dog and much of his care had been taken over by the same kitchen that provided meals for the Circle’s guards… even though he was more finicky and delicate than any dog.

“Some ssoft yellow fat, yes, yes… but he doesn’t like to hear about what we eats. It’s not nice what we eats.”

“I do want to hear,” said Eardwulf. “I asked.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs for a moment to let his eyes adjust. The cellar was darker than the upper level, though not pitch black. The candles weren’t lit, but the window was open to the fading twilight. When no one was available to take him up and down the stairs, Sméagol generally preferred to go in and out through his window, and to shamble up the slope and around to the front door when he wanted to enter the upper level of his house.

Sméagol squirmed in his arms a little, not insistently. It meant he was alert, awake, and thinking of all the things he planned to do when he was set down, but wasn’t uncomfortable where he was. “Yes, there was fat in our breakfast and bits of liver. And a little kidney, we thinks. But why does he need to know?”

“I do not like that you’re still so thin.”

“Are we still thin?” 

Eardwulf raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Do you not think so?” Had someone been calling him a glutton?

“Sss. Our clothes don’t fit.”

“No?”

“No, they are too tight now, and they was new, precious. They was expensive,” Sméagol muttered darkly.

Sméagol was very much not a child, and yet- now he was outgrowing his clothes. “I am certain the King could well afford them.” The King would in fact be pleased to hear that his strange ward was gaining much-needed flesh.

“We will be too heavy and it will be too much work to help us down the stairs,” Sméagol fussed. “Then we will have to climb them ourselfs, poor tired Sméagol.”

“I am accustomed to carrying dogs twice your weight and more. I do not think it is possible that you could become too heavy for me.”

Sméagol might find stairs a little awkward but he was perfectly able to climb walls and furniture, so he must not be incapable. What he really wanted, Eardwulf thought, was to feel that he was not loathsome, and no words would convince him- only the willingness to touch him without shuddering. 

In fact, though Sméagol indeed was not heavy, he often seemed to be composed entirely of elbows, and his skin always had a clammy chill to it even when he had not just soaked in cold water. Yet it would be a disappointment if he ever decided he no longer wished to be picked up and carried down the stairs. 

“But I am displeased with the tailor who made your clothing,” said Eardwulf, “for I told him quite clearly to make your garments loose, as you were still recovering from starvation and putting on weight, and we knew your clothes might not fit for very long if they were tailored too closely.”

Sméagol muttered and hissed under his breath.

“That is no fault of yours,” Eardwulf insisted. “You won’t need entirely new things. They can be altered.” Dealing with tailors was something new for Eardwulf. Hounds did not require their services.

“He will have to measure us again and he thought we was nasty. He won’t be pleased.”

“I’ll measure you if he doesn’t wish to do his job. Do you have clothing for tonight?”

“Yes, yes, it isn’t all wrong, not yet. But the things they has us wear if we must look nicer are too tight and we didn’t like wearing them to begin with. They itches and scratches us.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He could see well enough now to take Sméagol to the wardrobe and set him down- though as he was stepping back, Sméagol turned to him and caught hold of his hand. 

“Now what’s this, what’s this? You don’t have any gloveses today.” Sméagol began to nose at his hand, snuffling. His nose was cold, and when he snuffled, it was remarkably like a hound’s snuffling. “He’s forgotten his gloves.” His breath too was cold.

“I did not forget,” said Eardwulf. “You advised me that I ought not to need them anymore, so I’m not wearing them.”

He drew a sharp breath. “What’s these marks?”

“Marks, Sméagol? I am afraid my hand is in shadow and I can see little of it.”

“Marks- scars, here.” He touched a place at the base of Eardwulf’s thumb.

“The teeth of a hound,” said Eardwulf quickly, because he felt Sméagol’s hand trembling- Sméagol’s hand had its own scars from quite a different source. “I was inexperienced, and frightened a mother with pups. I had to examine the pups, and had not spent enough time convincing the mother my intentions were good; she took exception to it. It’s a hazard of my work to be bitten. Even the most tame and loving animal will use his teeth if he’s too badly frightened or hurt.”

“Yes, and that is why he wore the gloveses before,” said Sméagol, letting go of his hand and turning away. “Ach!”

“I wore them in part because you used to shudder at the touch of a bare hand,” said Eardwulf. “You never have given me a serious bite, in fact.”

“No?” He was taking out his clothes from the wardrobe. “Can’t remember anything. Sméagol must have bitten him once, I thinks. More than once.”

“Not a serious bite. A warning nip, every so often. Nothing that would break the skin.” 

“A warning, he says. Not a nice way to warn people, though, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” said Eardwulf. “But I have seen you tell people that you didn’t want to be touched or interfered with, only for them to ignore you. Perhaps they need more warning than words can deliver. And it is natural for you to decide you would rather stop bothering with spoken warnings if no one is going to listen to you.”

Sméagol had now partially dressed but was struggling to pull his tunic over his head. It had some lacing on the collar that had been left tied.

“Would you like me to help you?” Eardwulf asked.

“No, no!”

“Then I will do as you asked, keep my hands to myself, and not be bitten.”

“So Sméagol may bite when people doesn’t listen to him? He’s telling us to be naughty, gollum! Perhaps I’ll tell the King."

"He may behead me."

"Ss! We won't tell him, we won't tell the King."

"He will not really behead me."

"We won't tell him nothing! Ss, ss. So if we finds puppies he wants to look at- we must not go near the mother?”

“Indeed no- I will deal with the mother if she is still with the pups. Just tell me about it.”

He was still fighting his shirt. “Yes, yes. If there is puppies hidden somewhere we tells him. Ach! Help us, help us!”

Eardwulf loosed the lacing, and the collar slipped easily over Sméagol’s head. “There.”

Sméagol tugged at his sleeves and made fussing noises. 

“Is there anything else you need before I depart for the night?” Eardwulf asked. “Do you have any pain that needs to be seen to?”

Sméagol laid one of his cold hands ever-so-gently on Eardwulf’s shin, and looked up at him with his big, round, clear eyes. “Sméagol is old, and he forgets things, and does not always hear what the nice Men say to him.” As far as Eardwulf could tell, only one of those things was true. “But he thought he heard- yes, he thought that kind Eardwulf said he has brought us a present?” He blinked beseechingly. 

“Ah! I did not know whether I said such a thing or only thought about it,” said Eardwulf. “In fact I do have something. Let me see.” He reached into his pocket and produced the pouch of colored wax sticks. “Here, Sméagol- they are for drawing or writing. They’re quite waterproof and won’t melt or smudge in your hands.”

Sméagol took the items out of the pouch, sniffed at them, felt them all over in his hands, and without another word took them to his writing-table and began trying them. “Red, blue, green,” he muttered. “How did the Men make something so clever?”

“I am afraid I do not know how they are made.” He drifted closer to the table and looked over Sméagol’s shoulder. He was writing his name in different colors on a sheet of parchment.

Sméagol was so fascinated by the crayons that he had forgotten to thank Eardwulf. Indeed he seemed to have forgotten anything in the world but the crayons for the moment, which was a high mark of success. Perhaps he would even remain so amused that he would forget to investigate the nearby plumbing.

Eardwulf’s eye fell on a nearby piece of paper. “What is this drawing?” he asked. “Where did it come from?”

Sméagol did not look up. “Which one, which one?”

“The portrait.”

“That one. We do not know who that is, do we? He looks like he’s making a sour face, doesn’t he? The Lady drew it.”

“Which Lady?”

“The Lady! The one who bewitched us and made us sleep.”

Sméagol was quite adamant that some weeks ago a beautiful lady Elf had visited him and caused him to sleep for several days. It was true that he had slept, though he had woken up for short intervals to eat and drink, which he seemed to have forgotten. Eardwulf had at the time suspected that Sméagol had merely been exhausted and on the verge of catching cold, and had slept for the usual reasons that people sleep, and had dreamt about an Elf- perhaps because in his sleep he heard or smelled a visiting Elf by his window. 

He had never let on that he did not believe the story- he could always be wrong, and there was no harm in Sméagol believing his own account. In fact it would be well for him to be more comfortable with Elven visitors to the city. It was unusual for him to insist that an Elf was beautiful (and kind, and clever, even if she was also frightening and made Sméagol sleep, but he had forgiven her), and that made Eardwulf more inclined to believe she was not quite a real person. 

But it was a real drawing, and it was well beyond Sméagol’s abilities. It appeared to be a rough portrait of a Halfling with a fierce expression. Sméagol had called it a ‘sour face’, but Eardwulf thought it was the sort of face made by someone who had the unfortunate habit of glowering when he was fixed on some idea. “She drew this when she came to see you?”

“Yes, we was at our table, and she came in and sat with us, and asked if she might draw. Then she drew that! I don’t know who it is. I looked at it a long time, thinking she had set us a riddle. It is not Baggins, it is not Sam, it is not the Master, and it is not the other two, Meriadoc and Peregrin- so we don’t know it. But I do not think a Lady like that would make a mistake. So perhaps Sméagol has not solved the riddle. She said we might have a tutor…” He looked up from his new toys for the first time, and frowned. “I wonders who’ll pay for it. The King, I think she said. Yes, she was the sort of person a King would listen to, wasn’t she? Especially our King who listens to everyone, even little hobbits and Sméagol.” He bent his head back over his paper. “Does Eardwulf know, perhaps? Why is he asking about it as if it is something he thinks is important?”

The Elf had been sitting across from Sméagol at the table, and watching him scowl at his papers; that was the expression in the portrait. Eardwulf had certainly seen it often enough. He looked at his charge’s small face and pictured him with healthy flesh, normal skin and dark hair (in the portrait it was a little untidy- in life it was a great deal untidier and was also quite wet). The shape of his mouth and cheeks would be altered if he had a complete set of teeth- just so.

Sméagol had now put down his crayons and folded his large hands on the table. He looked up at Eardwulf, blinking innocently. “He is very fond of that picture. Perhaps he wants it?”

Sméagol’s eyes were large, clear and bright, gemlike and rather uncanny. The eyes in the portrait were less uncanny, but just as intense. Eardwulf studied them and said: “It was a gift to you, and is yours to keep or give away. However, I would, in fact, like to have this drawing if you don’t want to keep it.”

Sméagol eyed the portrait and scratched at his chin (it was sharp, and was hardly less so in the drawing). “It is ours, yes. The Lady gave it us. She was nice, and I likes having her present nearby, don’t I? That is why it’s out on the table. But then, I do not know who it is. Eardwulf looks at it as if he knows. But he would tell us who it was if he knew.” He reached for a yellow crayon and began scribbling busily. 

“I am not quite certain of who it is. I think it is someone I know,” said Eardwulf, choosing his words carefully. “I am fond of him, in fact. But I have never seen him look thus. I am only guessing.”

Sméagol blinked. “O? Who is it?”

“I don’t feel certain enough to tell you, in fact. But if I am right, you ought to know him yourself and it is… unfortunate that you don’t.”

“Sss, sss, now he is setting us a riddle. He cannot tell us we ought to know it and then take it away- I will think ‘who was that in the drawing, my precious?’ and wish I could have a look again.”

“Very well.”

“And it is ours,” said Sméagol. “It was a present.” 

“Indeed. It ought to be yours.” 

Sméagol picked up the blue crayon, made two large dots with it, and frowned down at the paper. He pushed it across the table at Eardwulf. “Who is that?” He had drawn a messy facsimile of a human face with a wild scribble of bright yellow beard and hair sticking off in all directions, with blue dot eyes. 

Eardwulf had never seen the plains of Rohan himself, but resembled his father a great deal. He touched his chin, which was coated with a short, wiry blond beard. There were of course other men in Minas Tirith with blond beards, even if it was not so common as dark hair, but none of them were in the room, and they tended not to look quite so ill-groomed as Eardwulf. 

“It is Faelon,” he said. Faelon could have been the archetypal Gondor-man with black hair and a smooth face (though his eyes were brown, not silver).

“Yes, of course it is Faelon,” said Sméagol with a wry sideways glance. “He is our favorite.”

It was a known caprice of Sméagol’s that he was alarmed and almost annoyed when someone laughed at his jokes, so instead Eardwulf gently tousled his thin hair- damp as it was, and feeling like water-weeds. Sméagol showed no acknowledgment of his touch, but scowled when Eardwulf took his hand away.

Eardwulf took that as a sign to deliver another pat on the head. “May I keep this?” he asked.

“O if it pleases him, yes. It’s not a clever drawing. It doesn’t look very much like him, does it?”

“On the contrary, I think everyone will recognize it at once.” It was crude, but Eardwulf didn’t know how to draw either and would not have done better.

He sighed as he carefully placed the folded drawing in his pocket. His purpose for coming had been accomplished and it was time to say farewell. If allowed his own way, Sméagol would never bid him to leave, but would simply go about his usual personal errands with Eardwulf in the room, making small talk as it suited him, and keep him here until dawn. “I am certain you have much to do tonight, and I fear I must sleep. I shall leave you now, Sméagol, if you do not need anything.”

“Going already? I suppose there is nothing,” said Sméagol. He yawned. If he had been wakeful from distressing dreams during the day, he might sleep in the night. No doubt he needed it.  (A thought occurred to Eardwulf. The Eldar were said to have subtle calming magics; suppose the lady who had drawn the portrait had also administered something to quell nightmares? That on its own might induce Sméagol to sleep longer and deeper than he normally did and account for his impression of events.)

“Farewell,” said Eardwulf. “Do not hesitate to send for me if you are in need.” Sméagol had never yet abused this privilege. He feared being seen as too much work to look after. 

“O we won’t. He must go now?”

“I fear I must.”

“Very well, very well, the Men knows best.”

Eardwulf went upstairs. He took the washtub and emptied it outside. He rinsed it out, shook out the excess water, and brought it back inside. Sméagol had come upstairs in his absence and was investigating the drain in the floor. 

“One last hello before I bid you goodbye,” said Eardwulf, watching the busy hands fiddling with the grate. There would be no harm done if he somehow removed the grate, it could merely be replaced. 

“Hello, goodbye. Where does it go, my precious? The hole in the floor?”

Saying that he didn’t know would be a dreadful error. It would make Sméagol more determined to explore to find his own answers. “The sewers, I should think.”

“How? Our cellar is under here, and the water does not flow into the cellar.”

“There is a pipe. It is too small for you. It is smaller than your best clothes, by far, and would fit you even more poorly than they.” He considered whether to put the tub back where it had been- the inconvenient spot on top of the cabinet- and decided to set it in the corner instead. 

Sméagol came over to him and began sniffing at the tub. “O!” he said. “Eardwulf’s handses are wrinkled from the wet. Poor Eardwulf. Perhaps he needs his gloves after all.”

“My hands will dry.” 

Sméagol put his teeth to Eardwulf’s hand. He touched them ever so gently to the skin, and withdrew, saying: “Nice Sméagol. Gently, gently! The Men has soft hands!”

“Not so soft as yours.” 

“O no! Nice hands,” he cooed.

“Sméagol, did you ask me about games because you would like me to play with you?” 

“Does he like to play?”

“I do. I must go now, but in future I can set aside a time to play with you. You need not find a game I like in order to play with me. I will learn your games if you wish to teach them to me.”

“But we can’t,” Sméagol pouted. “We don’t know how any longer.” He resumed his current game of touching Eardwulf’s hand with his teeth. It was no doubt really a test, to see if Eardwulf would frown or pull his hand away. Of course Eardwulf did not.

“Nice handses,” Sméagol said, and began clumsily stroking the back of Eardwulf’s hand. His unpracticed caresses were heavy and dragging and not entirely comfortable. 

Eardwulf did not correct Sméagol when he spoke in his own odd style- there were some who rebuked him when he said ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, or ignored him if he did not speak to them directly, but Eardwulf did not see the use. Neither did he see the use in telling Sméagol that he must use speech to convey what he wanted instead of tugging at a Man’s knees and whimpering when he wanted to be carried down the stairs. Those things harmed no one, and he believed such treatment would not teach Sméagol to speak Common like a nobleman. It was more likely to make him believe that people did not care about his wants. 

But Sméagol could not be allowed to form a habit of persuading people to stay with him longer by making himself pleasant to them, else no one would ever be allowed to leave his rooms. 

“Polliwog,” said Eardwulf, gently resting his un-occupied hand on the top of Smeagol's small, cold head, “I can see that you would like me to remain, but I regret to say that I cannot at present. I have had a long tiring day and must rest to make myself fit for tomorrow’s work.”

Sméagol drew back with a sigh. “So soon, so soon. He is sleepy, yes. It is time for sleeping, for Men, in the dark. Good night.”

“Good night, my friend.”

Sméagol followed him to the door and sadly watched him leave.

Suilorion was still sitting outside. Eardwulf would thank him for spending time with Sméagol, but not in the creature’s hearing (which had quite a range). Sméagol was likely to take it to mean that Suilorion was performing some unpleasant duty by giving him attention when in fact the old man clearly liked chess.

Suilorion saluted him on his way out. Eardwulf returned it. 

When he returned to his quarters, there was something waiting on his desk- a message with the royal seal. Bragger was sitting nearby, eyeing this item with keen interest. 

“Well!” Eardwulf said. “Have you been sitting there all along? And you let someone come in?” Bragger was a mastiff close in size to a pony, and took exception to anyone entering Eardwulf’s sleeping chamber, even the dog-boys who lived below in the kennels and had nearly equal claim to the room. 

Instead of offering any clues to the mystery, Bragger began to investigate the scents on Eardwulf’s hands. The dogs never seemed pleased with the way he smelled after visiting Sméagol.

“I am sorry, friend, but he needs my attention just as you do.” Eardwulf took off his vest and hung it up before sitting to read the letter. "And unlike you, he bathes himself when given water, and without complaint, at that."

As he walked back to the desk Bragger remained with the vest, sniffing it. He almost looked as if he were frowning. 

The handwriting of the message was not the King’s. Perhaps it was only his fancy, but Eardwulf thought there was a hint of scent from the parchment- not perfume. It was a fresh scent of night sky and clean air.

He shook his head. He had promised himself that he would be neither enchanted by, nor skittish of the Eldar who had begun visiting the city. That said, the Queen had quite a presence.

His first thought was that she wished to request that he lead a hunt, perhaps for the sake of visiting relatives. But in fact the letter was about Sméagol. She considered herself partly responsible for his well-being. She had visited him, and thought he was an intelligent creature who would benefit from the attentions of a tutor, as his wandering life had left him without the opportunity to receive the kind of education she believed he was capable of having. She wished to know Eardwulf’s thoughts on the matter.

Eardwulf sat at once to compose a reply. He wrote down the requisite salutations and greetings to someone of the Queen’s rank, and then for a minute his quill hovered over the paper. What was he to say? The Queen had been quite open and friendly in her letter, but she could address him as she wished- she was the Queen. He had not that same privilege.

Ought he to urge her to ensure that anyone dealing with Sméagol would know not to treat him as an imbecile or a mindless animal? No- she must know already that he was neither, or she would not see a reason to educate him at all. Should he insist that Sméagol did not need to be taught etiquette? No- as he looked over her words again, he saw that she had already stated she did not intend this and knew it would only serve to bore the creature. 

Eardwulf pondered and rejected a handful of other possibilities. Finally he wrote: 

It is vital that Sméagol be taught how dangerous it would be for him to interfere in any way with the city cisterns.

Chapter Text

Tarador was sitting by Sméagol's door, playing dominoes.

Tarador had been one of the team appointed to care for Sméagol when he first arrived in Minas Tirith, barely clinging to life. He had never seemed to like the creature, and had been quick to accept being relieved of his duties when Sméagol began to require less care, but then had later signed up to take a turn guarding his home. Perhaps he had missed him. But he was playing dominoes by himself, when another of the guards would have been playing with Sméagol, so he could not have developed too much liking for his company as of yet.

"Precious has a new couch," he said as Faelon approached.

"Oh!" said Faelon. "Has someone given him a present?"

"It was thrown away," said Tarador. "No one wanted it any longer. Sméagol asked. It is stained, but Sméagol does not mind that. It is good enough for him. It is a nice high couch Men may sit on with their long legs. Sméagol is allowed to have it. He asked. In addition, he is desirous for you to know that he has been a very good and well-behaved Sméagol. There was a great deal more but I have lost track."

"He did not bring it himself, surely!" Faelon said, wide-eyed.

"At one moment, he was not present- I glanced aside, and looked up, and there he stood, with the couch. It is small and made of wicker."

"His back is going to give him fits," said Faelon.

"I moved it inside for him."

"Thank you."

Faelon stepped into the building. The upper story was deserted. He retrieved the washtub from the corner- it had begun appearing there instead of atop the cabinet where it had been previously kept, so this must now be its proper place. Faelon was not in charge of such things.

A clatter arose from the cellar stairs. The door opened to reveal the blackness of the stairwell, and a glimpse of a pale face. Sméagol's eyes were screwed shut. The dim candlelight in the room was to him what a searing noonday sun would be to Faelon. Faelon had only seen the creature in sunlight twice- under bright light his skin looked so delicate, so thin and soft, too transparent to hide veins showing bluely through it at his temples and inside his wrists. The darkness concealed much.

"Good morning, good morning," Sméagol chortled. "Is it bathtime already?"

"Why, yes!"

Sméagol clambered across the floor towards him. All who dealt with him had had the experience of finding out for the first time how he moved- it was something that could not be told secondhand. Faelon had once dozed by his bedside- for the room was dark and Faelon was having trouble adjusting to the nocturnal habits of his charge- and had woken to find Sméagol ambling about the sickroom, exploring it, weak and tottering but with what Faelon would discover was his usual gait. He had thought at the time that Sméagol had fallen out of bed and broken his back. When he cried out in alarm, Sméagol cringed and said he was not damaging anything in the room by investigating it.

Currently he was investigating Faelon's ankles with the casual air of a much-indulged pet.

"I cannot run your bath if I cannot leave," Faelon said with an awkward laugh.

"He can't, can he?" Sméagol withdrew. Faelon quickly left- Sméagol was not known for being patient and might take a notion to resume blocking the way, for reasons known only to himself- and soon returned with the small tub full to the brim with cold water. He found Sméagol perched on something in the back of the room which proved to be the new couch.

"Something is different, perhaps?" Sméagol said. "What is it, my precious? Can he guess?"

Faelon set down the tub. Sméagol must indeed be enamored with his new couch because he did not immediately go to the bath. "Why, you have a new couch!"

"It was left outside someone’s house for anyone to have! They said we might have it! Clever Sméagol getting things for hisself, so the King needn't pay for them."

"Why, I am sure the King will be quite grateful," said Faelon. "What a lovely couch it is! Did you bring it here yourself?"

"All by our own selfs!" Sméagol cried, sitting up nearly straight and throwing out his small chest.

Oh no, thought Faelon. "Did that not hurt your back?"

"Yes, yes, back is hurting anyway, isn't it?”

“You would have been welcome to ask for help-”

“We don't want to make trouble. Good Sméagol." He was now scrambling for the tub.

"Why, you've forgotten something," said Faelon.

"Forgot?"

"Your clothes."

"O- clotheses- yes, yes," muttered Sméagol, who, for reasons Faelon did not entirely understand, often tried to get away with taking baths with his clothes on. He shed them in a flash and hopped into the water.

Faelon studied the couch as Sméagol splashed about and hummed to himself. (Sometimes he was brought a full-sized tub for Men as a special treat, and then he drenched everything around him in spectacular fashion.)

It was a shabby little couch with a mildewy odor- and fully half as long again as Sméagol. Faelon struggled to picture the little one transporting it. True, he was not as frail as he looked. He sometimes clutched Faelon's arm to steady himself, and his innocent unthinking grip was a vice that left bruises. But he could not walk without the use of his hands for very long.

Were those teeth-marks in the arm of the couch?

"It is nice, isn't it?" Sméagol purred. "He may sits."

Faelon sat on the couch at once, as if a nobleman had commanded him. Broken bits of wicker stuck into the small of his back.

Sméagol watched him appraisingly a moment, and said: "Might you help us with something?"

Faelon tried not to show dismay on his face. 'Might you help us', from Sméagol, may mean he only wanted to be handed a comb or washrag- or to have Faelon scrub his back between the shoulders, or neaten his hair- or it might mean that Sméagol had taken some wound and been tending it himself all day, chiefly by licking it, or was choosing to ask for help after several days of secretly feeling ill- or it might mean that he had knocked over his wardrobe and the doors had shattered and his clothes were everywhere- or it might mean anything at all.

"What do you need?" Faelon asked politely.

Sméagol pointed at the couch. "It would look nicer-" He paused, considering. "Yes, it would look much nicer- over there." He pointed to the other side of the room. "It is not much trouble for Faelon to move it. He is so tall, and strong!"

That was a little matter and easily remedied! And indeed the couch proved lightweight. Under Sméagol's direction Faelon moved it into and out of every place in the room it could go, some of them more than once.

The game ended when Sméagol began to rub his eyes and grumble, and finally he said: "It looks as well in one place as any of the others, I suppose. It needs something."

"Perhaps some cushions," Faelon suggested. "Or another item of furniture to balance the room. Then too it does not quite match the color of the cabinet- if both were decorated with something of the same shade to tie them together, it would look much nicer."

"I suppose," said Sméagol, after a confused pause.

"But dawn approaches. Shall I bring you downstairs? Surely you are clean by now!"

"Yes, clean enough," Sméagol complained, putting up his arms in a 'lift me' signal. Faelon wrapped him in a towel and carried him downstairs. Sméagol submitted to these operations so meekly that Faelon often forgot that his co-operation was a special privilege. Sméagol flatly refused to let many people get within range of touching him- not that many tried. They were not accustomed to Sméagol's looks and had a healthy respect for his teeth.

In the cellar, Faelon set Sméagol down on the bed. He took a few steps to the wardrobe before realizing that Sméagol's smallclothes and bedshirt were already laid out on the bed and Sméagol was already putting them on. He occasionally asked for help with lacings or buttons, but his plain shirt had neither.

The comb had been left out too. Sméagol eyed it plaintively.

Faelon spoke without making him ask. "Shall I neaten your hair?"

"Yes, please, nice Man," he said with a hint of a whine.

It was a mystery why Sméagol could not seem to comb his own thin hair to his satisfaction, when he often did not seem to care how he looked, but no matter- combing it was a small chore.

The comb was pressed into the palm of Faelon's hand before he could move to pick it up. He sat down on the end of the bed, and cold, damp Sméagol crawled up to him, sitting almost in his lap. His breathing was a trifle labored. The King had said his only trouble was asthma, and it sounded worse than it was, and Sméagol himself did not seem bothered by it, but Faelon still disliked to hear him wheeze.

Sméagol’s clean, scrubbed skin had a characteristic sharp odor that Faelon associated with catching frogs by the River outside the city. Some seemed to be more troubled by this odor than others. Faelon found it familiar by now and almost comforting, which was well for him as the scent would linger on his hands the rest of the day after burying his fingers in what remained of Sméagol’s hair.

Tarador had once expressed a wish that Sméagol would let himself be doused in perfume. Faelon hoped that was a joke. He did not think adding cologne on top of mildew and frog would be an improvement.

"Is that to your liking?" he asked, once the comb ran smoothly through without snagging.

Sméagol rubbed a few strands of it between his thumb and forefinger. "It is soft," he said contentedly.

"Yes, it is." In the extremely brief window of time when Sméagol’s hair was neither tangled nor slimy, it was as soft as corn silk, and his skin too had a powdery softness when it was clean and dry.

Faelon withdrew the comb. Sméagol was by this time lying quietly with his head on Faelon’s knee. He looked as content as Faelon had ever seen him, curled catlike with his eyes half-closed- though one who knew him well enough to read the subtleties of his face could detect faint, intermittent winces. As predicted, his back was giving him fits.

Faelon realized the danger he was in. “Sméagol, I must away to my work.” It had happened before that he had become trapped in the room with Sméagol asleep in his lap. Faelon could not bear to wake him, and had sat where he was until maids came in to tidy the room and one of them was willing to gently shoo the little creature away.

He had escaped this time- Sméagol was still awake, and withdrew with a drowsy grumble.

“Good night,” said Faelon gently, and went up the stairs with “It is day, good day, good bye,” being called up after him.

From there, Faelon went to work in the gardens. Today he had been assigned to clear one of the less public areas that had been allowed to fall to weeds during the war and must now be cleared. He was the only one working there at the time, and as it happened, he was not very far from Sméagol’s quarters, which was how he was able to spot the men who were hurrying that way. They were rangers.

Faelon hurried forward to meet them. “My lords,” he said, “forgive me for intruding, but if you are going to see Sméagol, perhaps I may be of service. I tend him.”

“Tend him,” remarked the captain, looking at Faelon’s soiled gloves and the trowel in his hand. “Is he a flower?”

“No, my lord, but he has difficulty understanding what is wanted of him sometimes, and I may be able to help. He is asleep at this hour but I deem you would not seek him if it were not urgent.”

“You are right, there is no time to spare. Alas, I was not told he may be useful until a mere hour before I must depart for Ithilien, and I am left with very little chance to speak to him.”

“I will run ahead of you to prepare him for your coming. What do you plan to ask him?”

“We are breaking into a certain block of dungeons in Barad-dur, and I have heard he has knowledge of that place and has given warning before of where there may be pitfalls or hidden survivors with evil intent.”

“Yes, that is a place he knows,” said Faelon. “I beg permission to remain for your talk, my lord. Sméagol is from the north and has a marked accent in his speech. It may be helpful for me to interpret between you.” The accent was actually quite mild and not at all what made Sméagol difficult to understand, but Faelon was uncertain of how to explain his odder habits and felt it was not quite kind to draw attention to them. The rangers would discover them soon enough at any rate.

“That would be of help, yes. I thank you. I have been warned of him.”

Faelon nodded. “I will go ahead of you now and await you in his quarters.” He dropped the trowel, shucked his gloves and sprinted.

Tarador was still at the guard post. He raised an eyebrow. “There has been no more contraband furniture since last you came,” he said.

“A group of rangers is coming to speak to Sméagol. I came ahead to prepare him.”

“What has he done?”

“He has explored Barad-dur,” said Faelon.

“Ah,” said Tarador. “I wish you luck.”

Faelon hurried inside, noting the broken couch. Sméagol in his naivety would no doubt invite the ‘tall Men with bright eyes’ to sit on it. Faelon hoped they would be kind.

Sméagol was curled up in bed, tangled in blankets and deep enough in sleep that he did not wake when his name was called. Faelon had to gently shake him, which put him at risk of being nipped. Fortunately Faelon had grown adept at withdrawing his hand quickly.

Sméagol did not nip. He blinked dully at Faelon and sniffed the air, which, curiously enough, seemed to be his method of telling the time. “It is still morning,” he said. “What’s happening?”

“There are some rangers to see you. They need your knowledge, and it cannot wait!”

“O, of course not.”

“Lives may be at stake,” said Faelon. “You are the only one who knows what they need to learn. They will be so grateful!” He tried to make it sound as if being woken up after just getting to sleep was a compliment. Privately he hoped their business really was important and would conclude quickly. Sméagol was rather too old for this.

“Yes, yes, we helps,” Sméagol sighed.

Faelon pulled out the tunic Sméagol wore for meetings with important persons, and discovered that after Sméagol had spilled milk all down the front of it, he had not remembered to put it in the basket of things to be taken away and cleaned. Faelon put it there now and took out the second-best tunic.

Footsteps creaked overhead.

“Come along, Sméagol!” Faelon led him up the stairs, as these days he disliked to be carried where others could see him when he was on important business. Too many people had commented on it and inquired about his health.

The rangers stood lined up in the room along the wall opposite the couch. “Good morning,” said Sméagol with only a hint of strain. “Nice Men come to visit. They may sit.” He gestured magnanimously to his new-to-him furniture.

“That is generous,” said the captain, “but as we cannot all fit upon the couch, we have decided tis more fair to our company that we all stand.”

“As he likes,” said Sméagol, and hopped up onto his couch to sit there himself. He did not show a trace of disappointment. But he then beckoned for Faelon to sit beside him, so Faelon must sit there with the broken wicker digging into his back.

“We will not take much of your time,” the captain began. “We are planning an excursion…”

The rangers laid out maps and began talk of places Faelon had largely never heard of and could not keep track of. It at once became plain that Sméagol knew them- had been there- had been held there- and as he dissolved into a gurgling, sobbing puddle it grew plain that he had been tortured there.

He tolerated more questions that Faelon would have expected or advised, but finally covered his face and cried “I can’t! I can’t!”

Faelon rose to his feet, but there was no need for him to speak. The captain was already saying “We will not force you. We have a great deal of information we can use now, and we thank you. You have done all we require.”

The rangers exited, without betraying horror or pity or disgust, thanking Sméagol and Faelon, inclining their heads to each.

Sméagol was left shivering, whispering, shying away from touch. Faelon waited helplessly while the creature eventually composed himself and sat there looking unbearably weary.

“Shall I carry you downstairs?” Faelon asked.

Sméagol looked startled, as if perhaps he had forgotten that he was not alone. “No,” he said. “No, I- I would like to go outside, for a moment, if he doesn’t mind. Not underground.”

“But it is daylight.”

“It is clouded. I can bear it. May I?” He huddled to the floor, blinking up with large sad eyes.

“Of course you may,” said Faelon, guiltily pushing away his thoughts of his abandoned gardening tools.

Sméagol peered into his face with eyes that had seen too much and still saw more than intended. “We can watch him work, perhaps. Yes, he is busy! He had works to do. And we have never seen him work. Sméagol wonders what it is that gardeners do, and he will keep out of the way, and keep his handses to himself, yes he will!”

Faelon would have struggled to say no to this even if the King himself had commanded he do so. And as it happened, the King would more likely want him to say yes. “Of course you may,” he said.

They encountered a group of cleaning women on the way out. Faelon recognized one of them, who had summoned him some weeks back when she had the misfortune to be working in Sméagol’s quarters when he woke up with a complaint of the stomach.

“Hello, hello,” Sméagol purred to her. “It is the nice lady! Dolthadis, it was, wasn’t it? We are going out today, she may have as much light as she likes to clean by to-day and Sméagol will not bother her.”

“Very well,” she said. “Twill be a pleasant change to have light. I hope you enjoy your outing.”

“We will, yes!”

But for an occasional hitch in his breath, there was no sign that he’d been reduced to hysterics minutes ago.

Sméagol tumbled after Faelon like a puppy, complete with pauses to investigate smells. When they reached the spot where Faelon had left his tools, Sméagol found a nearby shadow to crouch in and watch him from. “Now we shall see what he does when he goes away and leaves us,” he whispered, and Faelon became acutely aware that what he was doing was not entertaining to watch.

Yet Sméagol watched, and appeared well satisfied. In fact he trembled with the intensity of his interest the way he did when watching birds or mice.

“He’s digging things up,” said Sméagol. “Does Men eat them?”

“No, Sméagol, these plants are not eaten,” said Faelon. “We Men find them unsightly, I’m afraid.”

“Men kills things for being too ugly? Sméagol had better look after hisself, hadn’t he?”

“Oh, no, I-“ He looked back at the patch of clover in his hand. It wore delicate blossoms and was not ugly at all. “Rather,” he said, “these plants will choke out other plants we wish to grow.”

“Choking things is very nasty,” Sméagol agreed.

“Yes- and there are other reasons, I believe. But in fact I am only an assistant, so I do not choose which plants to remove. I do as I’m told, and all of these-“ he gestured to his bucket of weeds- “I have been told to remove.”

Sméagol sniffed at the pile and glowered. “They smells foul- but Men keeps things that smells worse to us, so that is not why they gets rid of them.”

“At times,” Faelon confessed, “I fear we may be too hasty. I know there is a certain plant the King has brought into use for healing purposes that we treated as a common weed before his coming. I myself had pulled it from the ground and burned it. I fear sometimes that his wisdom will show us other plants we were wrong to remove- too late to save them.”

“And are you going to request a personal audience with King Elessar every time I ask you to pull up clover?”

Faelon started up. “Master!”

His supervisor approached, a small stately figure in spectacles. “I was told there were some abandoned tools here,” he said. “I see they were yours. Which of your little friends have you been speaking to?” He saw Sméagol then- no doubt a littler friend than he expected. His eyes grew wide.

“I am sorry,” said Faelon. “The rangers needed to speak with him urgently, and my presence was required to aid them-“

His supervisor was bowing to Sméagol, who eyed him jadedly.

“He wished to take the air, master,” Faelon explained.

“Ring-keeper,” said the master smoothly. “You are welcome to go where you wish.”

Sméagol turned the color of chalk and said nothing. The master turned to Faelon. “Faelon, you need not worry when your duties conflict- tis plain which is the higher. Tis natural he would wish to see the gardens. The Halflings were ever fond of them. I regret he is seeing them in such disrepair.”

“He asked to watch me at work, so I had to bring him where work was needed,” said Faelon. He did not know how to explain that Sméagol disliked veneration, and disliked being treated as the other Halflings, and twas a mystery which he disliked more. Eardwulf would have known how to explain it.

The master glanced back at Sméagol and gave a little start. Sméagol had unspooled himself, as Faelon thought of it. There was little enough of him no matter how he stretched out, but it could give one a start when he showed that he had up to now been compressed to half his size. It gave the impression that he might double again, or as many times as he chose.

“He is shy, master,” Faelon said, mustering his courage. “He dislikes to be watched.”

“Ah. Then I will not trouble you, my lord.”

Sméagol made no reply. He frowned, and began to dig in the dirt with his hands.

The master turned away from him, looking faintly affronted and uncertain, which was common for people beholding Sméagol, particularly if he was new to them and particularly if they had expected him to be something other than what he was. “Everything is in order here, Faelon- I may leave you to it.”

Faelon bid him goodbye with a cheerful salute, doing his best to look unconcerned- then he looked to what Sméagol was doing.

Sméagol was now sitting up with a clump of uprooted plant life in front of him, laid out like a hunter’s trophy. “Sméagol helps.”

He’d pulled up a patch of clover. “Oh!” said Faelon. “You do not need to help.”

“We likes to, we likes to!” Sméagol said expansively, before giving the clover a sharp look and muttering darkly: “We’ve mucked it up somewhere, my precious.”

“No! No, you haven’t,” said Faelon. “But I do not wish you to work.”

“Why not?” He pawed sadly at the clover. “If Sméagol is doing something wrong- Faelon might show us how to do it right?”

“You have done right, but I- are you not weary?”

“O yes! So weary!” He began to sniff around in the grass. “Ech! Here is more.” He put a hand on the clover and looked up beseechingly at Faelon.

“If you want to help,” said Faelon helplessly, “I would like that. Thank you.”

Sméagol began to dig. Faelon knelt beside him. “But, there is a less taxing way to do it,” he said. “See how I grasp the plant near the roots and gently pull it free? Some of them may be a little more tenacious, and then you will need to dig, but it is mainly unneeded.”

Sméagol eased a clover plant out of the ground. “Like this!” he said. “And this is gardening?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Gardening is taking out nassty little things from the ground and killing them dead, gollum!”

“No, not quite- I mean- that is not the whole of it,” said Faelon. Eardwulf would have been able to explain it. “We plant new living things as well.”

“Sss, sss. Sméagol does the killing part, he has practiced it.” He began to prowl for clover the way he prowled for mice.

Faelon was not sure he approved of this comment, and wondered whether he ought to say so- but before he could think of a reply, Sméagol had another question.

“Who was that Man with the spectacles?”

“He is in charge of the garden.”

“Yes, of course. Why did he call us Ring-keeper? I didn’t keep it. I threw it away!”

“It is- that is- I suppose he was thinking of the time you had it under the mountain.” Eardwulf would have been able to explain this were he present. Faelon often felt he himself was too young and too stupid to be in charge of something so fragile, so unpredictable and so- well- precious. “The King told us about it at your trial. You kept it safely away from the grasping hands of evil.”

“The grassping hands of evil, he says,” Sméagol said, flexing his long white fingers. “Very well. But I do not like it. No. Not at all. And we was not very good at keeping it if a fat little hobbit stole it and then I threw it away. Sss.”

“Ought I to tell him not to refer to you that way?”

“O no, Men must do as they likes, I suppose.” He yawned fretfully.

“Do you wish to go back to bed?”

Sméagol turned a beseeching eye upon him. “He’d tell us, wouldn’t he, if Sméagol was in the way?”

“You are not in the way,” Faelon said. “I only thought- well-” He had asked because of the yawn, but they had already settled the fact that Sméagol was indeed tired and that it did not deter him from his current mission at all. Faelon smiled and changed tactics. “Let us make a bargain! I will tell you if you are in the way, but you must tell me if at any time you want to go home. If we agree to that, neither of us need keep asking. Will that do?”

“Of course, of course!”

Faelon went back to work, and soon grew absorbed in it amidst the sounds of Sméagol scuffling and humming to himself. From time to time the creature asked him about what he was doing, and Faelon showed him more types of weeds and how their roots differed.

At one point Faelon heard “This flower is not so terrible, is it? No, it doesn’t smell so bad at all,” and knew even before he looked up that Sméagol was looking at a dandelion. Indeed he was, and it was a dandelion that had gone to wispy white seeds. Sméagol nosed at it. His eyes were bright and curious. Then he sneezed, and the seeds went flying.

Sméagol stared at the denuded flower head. “I kill everything!”

“The flower is not dead!” Faelon told him. “That is its nature, to turn to seeds and scatter. The wisps you saw will alight and make new flowers. You’ve just helped a great many new ones to grow!”

“New flowerses everywhere,” said Sméagol, looking as if he thought that might be worse.

“The dandelion would thank you if it could, I am sure,” said Faelon. “Did you know, little children blow on them to watch the seeds scatter?”

“No, I didn’t know that,” said Sméagol.

“You ought to try it if you find another,” said Faelon.

He did not tell Sméagol that they were weeds, and from then on he avoided pulling up any where it might be noticed.

A little while later Sméagol approached him with a large white grub in the palm of his hand. “What kind is this, Faelon?” he asked. “I think I have seen it other places but I don’t know its name.”

“It’s a grub,” said Faelon.

“What sort of grub?”

Faelon wondered why it had never even occurred to him to learn this. He wished he could answer the question. “I am afraid I don’t know its name- but I know what it is and what it does; it will grow into a beetle that will eat the plants, so I kill them when I find them. Slugs are dangerous, as well. Earthworms are helpful, and ought to be left alone, but if you would be so kind, Sméagol, twould be quite useful for you to dispose of grubs and slugs if you find them.”

“You means eat them,” said Sméagol.

Faelon laughed a little. “If you like. I know you prefer not to have your eating habits singled out. After all you can’t help them.”

“Sss, sss, yes. We will eat them, they are nice. Why is it- why is it Men do not eat them? They are not so very different from meat. Pigs lives in dirt and mud. Plants lives in dirt. Those is good enough for Men to eat. And the grubs is not very different, they tastes a bit like soft chicken, they are chewsome and squidgy.” He looked a little abashed at having admitted his pleasure in eating them.

Faelon looked down into his little pointed face. “I,” he said helplessly. “I don’t know why Men do not eat grubs. They are common and can be had for free. Perhaps some do. Men have eaten rats when times were lean- in fact I have met some who liked the taste and kept eating them.” They were sold as a delicacy in Minas Tirith on market days, grilled and skewered on sticks. Faelon hadn’t tried them. He had eaten rat in the past only when his parents could afford no better, and associated the taste with fear and scarcity.

Sméagol slipped the grub into his pocket. “Men do not know why they do the things they do, eh?” he said, in an appeasing tone. “Sméagol does not always know why he does things either. He shouldn’t ask so many nosy questions. So the plants and the beetles and slugses eats each other, and the plants choke each other. It begins to sound as if the garden is fighting itself.”

“Nature resists attempts to better it, I suppose.”

“Is it better?” Sméagol asked frankly.

Faelon shrugged and winced. “I rather like the flowers.”

“Ach! Sméagol knows nothing about it, he has never tried to better anything.” He slunk off where he could eat his grubs in privacy.

Faelon had had similar conversations with his very young niece. The chief differences were that his niece had not traversed Middle-Earth on foot, had not cast Isildur’s Bane into Orodruin, and was not older than his grandfather; so she did not make him feel so foolish when her questions were unanswerable.

He was not surprised to look up a while later and find Sméagol asleep in a shady corner. Nor was he surprised to see that Sméagol had scraped and flattened the grass to make himself more comfortable. That would need repairing, but on the whole he had done more good than harm.

Faelon took out his packed lunch and surveyed the area as he ate. A great deal had been accomplished. Sméagol’s frantic energy and clawing hands had absolutely demolished the overgrowth. He had leveled out some of the uneven ground, too, after he had noticed Faelon raking out mounds of earth and inquired why.

Faelon pondered what it would be like and how it would look if he took out his aged grandfather and made him do the day’s work. He cast a guilt-ridden glance at Sméagol’s tiny form. As it happened, he had just begun to wake, and was pulling himself to a sitting position in a jerky manner that showed his joints ached. “Didn’t mean to nap, did we?” he said.

“But you are usually asleep at this time,” said Faelon, packing up the remnants of his bread and cheese.

“Not today. Don’t want sleeps.”

“Are you afraid you may have nightmares?”

“No, no.” He frowned and rubbed his eyes. “Why am I lying? Of course I am afraid of nightmares. I do not have them as often as I should but when I do they are terrible, terrible!”

“That pains me to hear,” said Faelon. “I don’t think you should have any nightmares. I don’t like you to be distressed.”

Sméagol did not understand these things unless told. Since meeting him, Faelon had unconsciously formed the habit of telling these things to other people in his life whom he had always assumed knew without being told, such as his mother, and the results had been surprisingly good. It seemed that, while not everyone expected to be thought of as loathsome, most people did not know they were loved without being told either.

Sméagol remained with Faelon for the rest of the afternoon. Faelon had to admit to himself that he was pleased to have the help. He had thought he would be toiling in this patch for several more days and now it was nearly clear.

It finally ended when he caught sight of a woman pushing a small cart in the direction of Sméagol’s quarters. “Look!” Faelon said. “Is that someone bringing your breakfast?”

Sméagol blinked in her direction. He was by now beginning to look bleary. “It is, it is Galil, isn’t it?”

Yes, it was- Faelon had met her a time or two as she came and went. He was pleasantly surprised to find that Sméagol knew her by name.

"You must want your breakfast!” said Faelon brightly.

“We do, don’t we?” Sméagol said, eyeing the cart. It was a bit of a surprise that he had not asked for food before now- perhaps he’d been finding more grubs and slugs than Faelon had noticed.

“Let’s go and meet her, then.”

Sméagol ambled in Galil’s direction. She was surprised to see him outside, but not shocked. “Good evening, Sméagol! You have been taking the air, I see.”

“Yes, lots of smells today.” He sniffed at a covered dish on Galil’s cart.

“Have you been playing in the dirt?” she asked.

“Not playing, helping! We was helping in the King’s gardens!”

“Ah! That is honorable work.”

“It is,” said Sméagol. “The very nicest peoples do it.”

“But I fear it has soiled your hands,” said Galil. “Hold them out and I’ll pour water over them for you.”

Sméagol dutifully offered his hands and watched almost in awe as they were rinsed and made clean with water from a pitcher in the cart.

“There,” said Galil. “Now I shall bring your food inside for you.”

“We could eat it here,” Sméagol suggested. “Yes, peoples eats outside, nice people. They brings food in baskets and sits out on the grass. It’s called a pic-a-nic.”

Galil nodded. She seemed to understand that it was best to react to most of what Sméagol said as if it was perfectly normal and expected. “You would prefer I lay it out for you here?”

“Yes! Yes, and Faelon has something to eat with him too, doesn’t he?” He gave Faelon an odd look, half apology and half plea. “We saw him pack it up. He’s got it in his pocketses.”

“Yes, I do have some food,” said Faelon, though he did not know why Sméagol found it so interesting- perhaps because Faelon had eaten outside earlier that day?

He saw that Galil was looking to him for approval. “Yes,” said Faelon, “it would be pleasant for him to eat outside. Here, Sméagol, we will sit by your window.”

Galil set down the covered dish, which proved to have a mixture of meat in it. Eardwulf would have known what kind of meat it was and opined on whether it was of sufficient quality. Faelon would have to assume that, as Sméagol had no complaints, it was good enough.

“I trust you’ll enjoy it,” Galil said warmly, as Sméagol set upon his food with a babble of thanks.

She left with her cart. After a few mouthfuls of food, Sméagol glanced up at Faelon and asked: “He still has foods, doesn’t he?”

“A bit of bread and cheese. It would not be to your liking.”

“O no! We has our own. But Faelon might eat some if he wishes? Perhaps he is not hungry?”

“You want me to eat with you?” As he asked the question, Faelon realized Sméagol always ate alone, and wondered what it would be like to take all of one’s meals alone- forever, and not by choice.

Sméagol’s voice was faltering. “Hobbitses eats together sometimes.”

“Why, certainly I will eat with you.” He drew out his scraps of bread, and stood for the Standing Silence, putting his hand to his breast.

When he sat back down, Sméagol was blinking at him.

“Why did he do that?” he asked.

“Ah! We of Gondor stand in tribute to Numenor of the West before we eat, in tribute to our ancestors, who came over the sea, and in tribute to the Elvenhome that is across the sea.”

Sméagol nodded uncertainly.

“You need not do so,” Faelon added hastily. The uncertain look was probably because Sméagol was wondering if he had been rude by not following the custom himself. “It is not the sort of custom that outsiders- I mean, foreigners- I mean, anyone who is…”

“Anyone who is not even a Man at all,” said Sméagol. “Yes, yes.”

Faelon disliked to call attention to it because Sméagol had not merely left his homeland for a better- it had been destroyed, and there was no place he could go to find others of his people and custom, ever again. “No one will think it unseemly if you do not stand,” he said. “Your ancestors are not of Numenor.”

“We looks north to the River, maybe,” said Sméagol. Faelon had the faint impression that he was trying to smooth things over. “It doesn’t matter now. Eat, eat!”

The bread was stale and Faelon had at some time sat on it, but he disliked to waste food and had eaten worse. There was a grain shortage, as well.

He now dutifully ate the dry stuff to the sound of Sméagol’s delighted slobbering.

“Gollum!” Sméagol drew the back of his sleeve across his mouth. “Faelon eats his breakfast before he comes to see us in the morning, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, I do.”

Sméagol was looking at his bit of dry bread. “What does Faelon like to eat for breakfast?”

“I usually have bread and cheese.”

“That’s what he likes?”

“It would be nice to have meat now and then.” It was plainly not an idle question. Sméagol liked to learn about Mannish customs. “Men often have bread for breakfast, or perhaps some porridge that’s been sitting overnight. Those who can manage it may add bacon, or sausage, or eggs. At least- that is how it is done in Gondor.”

“Yes, yes. The King can manage it. Sméagol gets the bits of leftover bacon and eggses for his dinner.” He popped something ragged, dark and red into his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. Finally he said: “Faelon is too thin and that crumb he’s got wouldn’t feed a rat, ach! The King can afford breakfast for him. We’ll ask and they will bring some in the morning.”

Alas! Eardwulf would have noticed he was about to say something outrageous and headed him off. “That is very good of you, Sméagol.” He did not wish to tell Sméagol that he could not simply offer the King’s parlor to his friends whenever he wished. “I will ask on your behalf,” he said. Then he could confer with Eardwulf and figure out how to present the inevitable refusal to Sméagol…

“No,” the creature said shortly. “Sméagol asks. Else they will think you are trying to get free foods out of us. That is not fair! I want it and I will ask for it.”

“I… see. That is very generous of you, Sméagol.”

“Not at all. It is the King’s money!”

“But-“

“Not at all, not at all! The clovers and the other weedses, are they always not wanted?”

“I believe so,” said Faelon. But this time he caught on. “But- I think you ought to ask someone first if you plan on digging them up.”

“O very well.”

“Have you taken so to gardening?”

“Sméagol likes to help. He likes to dig. Why not?” Sméagol had by now finished eating. Galil had left him some washing-up water, which he now applied to his face and hands. “Does Faelon want to wash?”

“I do not need to- my food was quite dry.”

Sméagol was not listening to him. He looked distracted, tilting his head and gazing off into the distance. Suddenly he picked himself up and looked down the path. Faelon was not surprised when Eardwulf came into view. It would be either him or Lord Boromir. Sméagol knew the footsteps of each- in the case of the Captain-General twas due to his stiff leg and the stout walking-stick he used, and it seemed that Eardwulf had one leg shorter than the other. This was not immediately apparent to the eye but lent his gait a distinctive sound- at least, to those with keen hearing.

Eardwulf was naturally taciturn and learning his facial expressions had been as much of a task as learning Sméagol’s- or more, because Sméagol occasionally made obvious signs such as baring his teeth or grinning, and Eardwulf did neither. But by now Faelon had worked with him closely for almost a year, and recognized that lightheartedness approaching the building turned to alarm at the sight of Faelon- who was never here at this hour unless Sméagol needed special attention.

Faelon got to his feet and opened his mouth to speak, but Sméagol was already crying at Eardwulf’s knees. “Men came today and asked us nasty questions!”

“Is that so?” Eardwulf asked.

“Rangers all in green, Faramir’s rangers. He and his Men that see lies are going to pull the Dark Tower down, all of it down, gollum, gollum! They will make it back into the City of the Moon!”

Faelon had heard rumor that this was not quite so- Minas Morgul could not be restored and would be destroyed. He was not going to correct Sméagol.

“They needed to know about prisoners,” Sméagol said, his voice beginning to shake. “They asked about the little rooms and the doors leading in, how the walls were- thick, thick walls you could scratch at until your hands fell off, and all of the ch… chains and shackles. They wanted to know, could anyone still be alive there. I s-said, only if they have been eating each other, gollum! They asked if anyone could get out. No. They’ve starved where they are fixed to the walls.” He began to rub his wrists. “Still there. Always there.”

“You do not need to speak of those things to me unless you wish it,” said Eardwulf.

“Hardly any room to move,” said Sméagol. “Always something dripping somewhere that I could hear but never get at, and I was so thirsty, so so thirsty, and it must have dripped on purpose, gollum! He was thoughtful, yes, He thought of things like that. Little things, little ways to be cruel. Little ways and big ways, too, like quiet parts of a song and loud parts, parts like screams. Always someone screaming.” He shuddered. “No! I won’t say. They are nice Men and don’t need to hear about such things. It is better not to know. Has Eardwulf come to draw a bath? I wants one… please.”

“Yes, that is what I have come for,” said Eardwulf.

“We’re covered in dirts.”

“Have you been digging, Sméagol?”

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “What does he suppose we’ve been doing so much digging for?”

“I know not,” said Eardwulf. “Would you like me to try guessing?” He was looking into the yard, in the vicinity of the old pipe that connected to Sméagol’s wall. He had confided before that he feared Sméagol digging it up one day and wanted Faelon to watch for the signs.

“Yes, guess, guess! Three guesses, three guesseses.”

“Have you been grave-digging, perhaps?”

“No, no,” Sméagol said chidingly. “Nasty.”

“Perhaps you’ve been digging out rabbits for a starving family.”

“Wrong, wrong!”

“Have you been exploring?”

“No!” said Sméagol. “Sméagol has been a-gardening! Whatever would Sam say?”

“He’d approve, I hope,” said Faelon.

“O no! He’d say we was doing it wrong.”

“Gardening,” said Eardwulf, looking at Faelon. “I see. Perhaps I should have guessed.”

“Faelon taught us,” said Sméagol, coming over to Faelon and companionably sitting down on his boot. “About weeds. And slugses, which we knew something about already, of course!”

“Of course,” said Eardwulf.

“Sméagol looks a bit like a slug.”

“I have never known a slug to invent riddles. Or to have arms.”

“He was a great help to me,” said Faelon. “A slug could never be so helpful! We worked together all day.” He gave Eardwulf a significant look.

“Since the rangers visited?” Eardwulf asked.

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “Now we are tired and would like to wash off the muds. We don’t wish to make our house dirty.”

He leaned against Faelon’s shin. Faelon’s foot was falling asleep. He did not move a fraction of an inch.

“Of course,” said Eardwulf, stepping inside. When he emerged with the empty washtub Sméagol peered at him and said:

“Did he notice anything?”

“It seems you have a new couch.”

“It is nice, eh? Sméagol brought it home all by hisself!”

“However did you convey it?”

“Dragged it. It was a long way!”

“I expect so. Tis quite a treasure.” Eardwulf walked off with the tub.

There had been talk of setting up a faucet by Sméagol’s rooms so he could draw his own bath and take it in private, but the plumbing had yet to be sorted out, and workmen had yet to be found, and then everyone seemed to be convinced that Sméagol would reward them for the project by flooding his little house.

And perhaps he would, Faelon conceded, looking down at the bony, clammy little personage affixed like a limpet to his leg. He may well find a faucet irresistibly exciting. There had been no such things in his long-ago burrow along the River, and surely to him it would seem a marvel of the modern world and a wonder of Men. (Though there was just as much chance that the system of cisterns had been invented by the Elves and Minas Tirith had only a poor copy. Faelon was not learned enough in lore to know for certain.)

Sméagol was looking back up at him. At times he looked at Men in a cool, distant, appraising way. Faelon had been accused of being easy to impress, but he was certain Sméagol’s wit was keener than his stumbling speech could convey, and, indeed, at times he feared that wit was keener than his own.

“I enjoyed our time together today,” said Faelon, seeking to break the odd tension that he felt.

“Did he?”

“Yes, truly, although I am worried you may take ill, having worked so hard and had no rest.”

“Ach, we may. It is too late now.”

“I have long wondered,” Faelon ventured, “what does ‘ach’ mean?”

“Mean, precious?” Sméagol blinked. “It doesn’t mean anything. It is just something people says, I suppose.”

“Ah… I see.”

“But Men doesn’t say it?”

“Not that I have heard, but-“

“Is it wrong to say?”

“No, no!”

Eardwulf was returning with the filled tub. Faelon hailed him with relief.

“We could take a bath outside,” said Sméagol.

Eardwulf’s tone had an edge of finality. “I’m afraid you could not. But I will place it near the window, if you prefer.” He carried the tub into the building.

Faelon followed, but Sméagol remained on the threshold, blinking and frowning.

“Here,” said Faelon. “I shall open the windows and then it will not feel so close.”

Sméagol finally crept inside. Once in, he sniffed at the air and the floor, and looked as if he found it a pleasant surprise that it was really still his own home with all of his own smells. He gladly shed his clothes and hopped into the bath.

“Not every window, perhaps,” he said as Faelon stepped towards the shutters. “Nice and dark, it is.” After leaving the puddle of light near the open door, he had become a nearly invisible shape in the gloom.

Faelon stepped away from the shutters.

Sméagol sloshed in the water. “Never got any bath in the tower,” he said. “Not one. Never gave us any washing water, and then kicked us and said we stank. Ach! And we did, and we knew it, o, it was wretched, wretched, covered in filth and the crusts of my own blood!” He began to shake and whimper.

Eardwulf picked up the ladle that hung on the wall and began to scoop up water with it, pouring it gently over Sméagol’s back and shoulders. Sméagol lapsed into silence.

Faelon stood in an awkward silence. He was plainly no longer needed and had nothing to do, and could not see any way to help, but he felt as if leaving suddenly would be an abandonment.

The silence broke when Eardwulf said softly: “I cannot let you sleep in the tub. You do not have gills.”

“Eh?” Sméagol snorted drowsily. “Was I?”

“You were about to. Here, I will bring you to your bed. It is your own bed with your own smells, and it is soft and clean. And see, Sméagol, your door locks from the inside and the lock is where you can reach it. The door to the cellar does not lock at all.”

Faelon followed them down the stairs, pausing to pick up Sméagol’s discarded clothing. As he did so he realized Sméagol had been wearing his second-best clothing to weed the garden.

In the cellar, Eardwulf was already helping Sméagol dress.

“I didn’t- they didn’t- they didn’t g-give me any clothes,” said Sméagol. “They wouldn’t let me wear anything.”

“You have clothes now. Look, they are clean, they are made for your size, and it seems they have been mended, as well, here where your sleeve tore.”

Sméagol’s clothing often needed to be mended. It came from being so active and so close to the ground.

Eardwulf picked up the small figure in the dark and set him on the bed. “See, it is your own bed. The King of Gondor gave it to you. Tis softer than my own at home, though mine is cushioned somewhat with dogs.”

“Yes, nice and soft…”

“You used to tell me it was too soft.”

“I was wrong! Suppose- suppose he does open the window for us, just a bit?”

Faelon was closer, so he opened the window, letting in the last haze of evening light and the fresh scent of the outside. “The window latches from the inside,” he said, taking a cue. “There is no way to bar it from without.”

Sméagol closed his eyes against the dim light. Eardwulf left his bedside and began to look about at things in the room, checking for inauspicious signs such as damaged furniture or unfinished meals.

A glint of light caught Faelon’s eye- there was an odd metal contraption hung in Sméagol’s window, which bore a fanciful resemblance to a fish. Lord Boromir had purchased it for him from a shop in town. The Captain-General had always seemed wise and responsible but a bit distant, like a father who was always working and only saw one for an hour at dinner once or twice a week. Since the end of the War he had become a present, doting, spoiling sort and Halflings were his special favorites- all of them, and now that Sméagol was the only one still in the city twas no surprise that he was receiving presents and attention. After so many years of abandonment, no doubt he could benefit from such favors.

It was catching the light. Had Sméagol hung it to catch the light? It looked well when it did- the different metal faces glinting gave an illusion of scales. But Sméagol so disliked light.

Faelon found, suddenly, that Sméagol was watching him. When he saw Faelon had noticed, he sat up a little. “Will he come here a minute, the nice Man?” It was the polite, nearly supercilious tone Sméagol used when he needed something he thought would be a chore or a bother.

Faelon went to his bedside. “Yes, my friend?”

“May I? He doesn’t mind, does he?”

It was not wise to agree to something Sméagol wanted without knowing what it was or why he wanted it but by now Faelon was tired too, and after hearing about the tower he was inclined to be indulgent. “Yes, of course.”

Sméagol reached up to touch his face. A light, damp touch, like a chill mist sweeping his face and finding every surface of cheek and jaw. Sméagol’s own face was set like the face of someone copying a piece of artwork or sketching a complicated bit of architecture. He ended by laying his palm against Faelon’s cheek. “He has a nice face,” he said with immense satisfaction. “Yes… yes, a fresh, sweet face. And it is kind.”

“I thank you,” said Faelon, feeling as if he could almost see through the outward appearance of the beaten, ruined Halfling and past it to an old, cunning intelligence, jaded and bitter, that had judged him and found him good. And then Sméagol withdrew his hand and yawned, and seemed again quite ordinary or even a little less than ordinary.

He and Eardwulf lingered in the room until Sméagol slept, which did not take very long.

Leaving the building, Faelon said: “I dread to think he will wake and find us gone.”

“There is [name],” said Eardwulf, nodding to the guard.

“Ah! Good evening,” said Faelon.

“Is something amiss? You do not usually both go in at once,” the guard asked.

“He’s had a trying day,” said Eardwulf. “Let anyone who goes in know not to wake him. If he wakes of his own accord he may come out to speak with you… be especially gentle.”

The guard nodded and they continued on.

“I saw him touch your face,” Eardwulf remarked.

“Oh- yes. I know not why, but it seemed a compliment.”

“He looks at things with his hands sometimes, I’ve noticed. He has never looked at my face so closely as he did yours, however.”

“In a strange way I feel marked with approval,” said Faelon.

Eardwulf gave him a dry smile. “I know you have worried that he prefers me, but I do not think I could persuade him to learn my profession.”

“Ah,” said Faelon with a wince. “After being questioned this morning he wished to go outside for a time, and he offered to watch me work. I suspect he saw that I was anxious about neglecting my other duties, though he claimed to be curious about what I was doing…”

“I am sure he really was, and also saw that you were anxious, and believed you might both profit if he followed you to work.”

“Yes, perhaps. He did seem interested. He asked a great many questions, and then he began to do what I was doing- pulling up weeds.”

“You look distressed. Was he difficult to manage?”

“No, indeed,” said Faelon. “He was pliable, helpful and friendly. He was in truth a help to me, and I am not sure it is right for me to have taken so much benefit from the labor of someone I am paid to care for. And he is so small. I feared he would strain himself- I still fear he may have strained himself. And I felt the whole thing had the look of cruelty. I was afraid all the time that someone would see him doing my work, and going about as he does, looking as if his back was broken.”

Eardwulf had suggested that perhaps Sméagol looked like that because his back had, in fact, been broken once upon a time, in a manner that had not paralyzed his legs, and then it had been left to heal on its own and never again had its right shape. Faelon thought if this had happened Sméagol would have starved to death from lack of hunting, but Eardwulf thought the creature was hardy enough to endure it.

They did not dare ask Sméagol about it. It was best to let him choose whether he wished to discuss the past.

Eardwulf was shaking his head. “Sméagol did not strain himself by weeding the gardens. You have seen him dig for the pleasure of it. He was right to want to be outside in the free air and you were right to help him. And I think he enjoyed himself a great deal by digging up the King’s gardens and being praised for it.”

“He must be exhausted,” said Faelon.

“Then he will sleep. What ails him is the memory of imprisonment and slavery. Forcing him to remain inside and forbidding him to choose how to spend his time would have been disastrous for him.”

Faelon nodded. “Perhaps so. I ought not worry. He is a perian- he’s not made of glass.”

“No. Be braced for him to make more experiments with how he may make use of freedom and safety. It is new to him.” He shook his head a little. “And he may indeed one day decide to see what my dogs are like. Unfortunately for him, they are all excellent guard-dogs. I’ll have to warn him not to slip in through a window unannounced.”

“Yes- that would be dreadful!”

Eardwulf glanced over at him. “Try to enjoy his company,” he said. “Do not tarnish it by fretting. He has been long-lived, but we will not have him forever.”

Faelon did not like to think of it. “Oh,” he said. “He threatened to ask to have a breakfast brought for me in the morning so I may eat with him.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Surely the King will not wish to issue such an extravagance…”

“Do you think our King would forbid you breakfast?”

“I suppose not-”

“Are you unwilling to eat with Sméagol? His habits can be off-putting.”

“No, no, I am quite used to him. He is no worse than any other old soul with hardly any teeth.”

“By all means, let him ask, then.” Eardwulf paused. “We’ve reached the turnoff to the kennels. Do you want to come in for a glass of ale?”

“Oh, that is kind-“

“No? Very well. Good night.”

“I didn’t mean-”

Eardwulf was walking briskly away, showing not the least sign of offense or disappointment. Faelon was exhausted and in fact had not wanted ale. He had not thought he gave any indication that this was his thought.

Walking home slowly, Faelon mused over the day. He could have enjoyed it a great deal more if he had not fretted so. Sméagol had never been in danger and had never caused any real problems.

That night he dreamt of being locked in a cell too small to turn round in as, just outside, a figure in shadow mocked him.

Faelon found he could only open the door a little way before it hit some item inside and stopped. He hoped the item had not been Sméagol, who sometimes rushed to the door when he heard someone’s approach. He peered into the dark room, but could see nothing.

Flapping footsteps sounded from within. Good- he had not been at the door. “Who is it, precious, who’s there? Why, it’s Faelon! Whatever does he want, eh?”

There was the sound of something scraping across the floor and the door opened more fully. It let out an appetizing smell.

“Come in, come in,” said Sméagol, taking Faelon’s hand in his own- which was nearly as large- and leading him to the table. Faelon’s eyes were already beginning to adjust to the candlelight. There had been a chair in front of the door, which was now just aside.

“Someone has been trying to get in at us to take our portrait,” said Sméagol, “and we was so annoyed we blocked the door, though Sméagol knows he shouldn’t.”

“How dreadful! Perhaps you ought to speak to the guards.”

“Ach, yes, I should, I keeps forgetting. I will write a note and tack it up on the door and then they will all know.” He nudged Faelon. His touch was damper than it would be all on its own- he had already bathed. “Careful, careful! He’s about to bark his shinses! Sméagol’s been very messy.”

“What’s in that box?”

“We do not know yet, someone’s sent us a present. I thinks it is someone who thinks we can get them to meet the other hobbitses. Of course they lives far away and if they was here they would meet whoever they like whatever I say. Here’s his chair.”

Faelon nodded. Sméagol pattered off to his own seat, while Faelon observed the Standing Silence and then sat down to a breakfast of eggs and bacon. There was also some buttered toast, and fresh berries.

Across from him, Sméagol attacked his dinner with obvious enjoyment. He did not seem to be in the mood for conversation.

After a time Faelon noticed that Sméagol’s favorite coat was draped over the chair nearby, which he took note of because it was not usually put there. Sméagol’s things did turn up in random locations but he was careful with his coat.

“Will he help us with our buttonses?” Sméagol asked meekly.

“I will do so gladly, but- I am surprised that you want your coat. It is nearly day.”

“It is clouded up, nice and dim, and I’ve been asleep most of the night, silly Sméagol falling asleep. Now he cannot sleep when he’s supposed to because he’s already done it!”

“I see,” said Faelon. “Why, that all seems sensible to me, and it’s certainly cold enough for your coat. Do you want company?”

Sméagol had slipped into his coat as quick as a flash and sat with his arms outstretched to allow access to the buttons. “We wondered- yes, we wondered if Faelon might not mind us watching him at work in the gardenses, perhaps.”

“I would not mind at all. I am planting trees today.”

“The Man makes trees?” He tried to sound nonchalant, but his eyes were enormous.

“Yes, it is not so wonderful as you suppose! Did your people not plant things, Sméagol?”

“I’m not sure, not sure. I don’t remember it but perhaps- I did not care about it and have forgotten, yes… I did not know, back then, that one day it would be gone and I would wish I could remember everything.”

“I am sorry to hear it!”

“Don’t be sorry. Not his fault. He should try to remember everything,” said Sméagol, “jusst in case.”

“I shall. And today I shall show you how Men plant. Come along!”

“These have grown up from seeds,” said Faelon, leading his shuffling companion along to the garden house. “We don’t plant them in the ground until they’re old enough. See?”

He had arrived after most of the others had left, though [name] was still collecting his tools. He looked up at hearing Faelon’s approach, and glanced about to see who he was talking to- plainly overlooking Sméagol, who was making himself hard to see in the quiet, effortless manner that the pheriannth used to hide in plain sight. Faelon did not sabotage his efforts by pointing him out.

Sméagol watched solemnly as Faelon loaded three small saplings into a barrow. “We thought he was going to make them from nothing,” he said, waiting until after [name] had left. “Silly, silly! He can’t, of course.”

“No,” said Faelon, “but I can grow a plant from a seed. I suppose you have not had so many reasons to take notice of seeds. How much do you know about them?”

“Sss, sss. Not much.”

“You’ve seen acorns, have you not? You know what they look like?”

“Yes,” said Sméagol, “used to try to eat them when we could get nothing else, but they made us sick, ach.”

“They grow into trees.”

“No wonder they made us sick!” Sméagol looked aghast.

He seemed so horrified by the very idea of new plant life coming to be. Faelon wondered- not for the first time- if Sméagol knew how children were born.

He was not going to be the one to introduce that subject. “I am going to take these trees to their new home,” he said, picking up the handles of the barrow.

He paused there, because Sméagol had gotten sidetracked into investigating the barrow and was putting himself where he might get run over. “Room for Sméagol,” he said.

“There’s room for you in the barrow?”

“There is!”

“Would you like to ride inside with the trees?”

“Let’s see how it is to be inside,” said Sméagol, climbing up into the barrow. His weight was a negligible addition. “Yes, we’ll ride in here!”

This seemed like a good way to keep him contained. “Off we go!” said Faelon, keeping a careful pace with the barrow and avoiding uneven ground, which he would have done anyway- he didn’t want the trees to be too jostled either, after all.

The trees were marked for being planted near the garden pond. Fortunately Sméagol was acquainted with the pond and knew the fish were not for hunting.

Faelon demonstrated digging a hole for one of the trees with plenty of room for the roots. Sméagol watched this keenly with quivering nose.

“They will grow large, so they need to be quite far apart. Here,” said Faelon, “I’ll save time by marking out where each one should go.” He did so by cutting marks into the turf, and began digging the next hole. Almost at once he heard scratching, and looked up to see Sméagol digging at one of the other planting spots.

“Oh! Are you helping?” Faelon asked.

“Maybe,” said Sméagol. “Or maybe Sméagol is jusst making a mess!”

“You are helping! I thought you may be in a mood to dig.”

“Ha, ha! Sméagol doesn’t get to dig up the King’s gardens every day, does he?”

“No, certainly not,” Faelon laughed, and went back to work.

He had expected Sméagol to dig, but he did not expect to go to the barrow and find two saplings instead of three.

The missing tree was in the hole Sméagol had dug. He was sitting next to it, with a solemn face. “Sméagol planted a tree.”

The saplings were small and to Faelon they seemed quite lightweight, but to Sméagol it must have been a taxing job. Faelon let go of the temptation to be horrified. Sméagol would do as he would.

“Yes, he did plant a tree,” said Faelon. “Very good work! You’ve taken it out of the pot and covered up the roots.”

“I thought I should, because rootses go underground, don’t they?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right. And you gave it enough space, too. Very good!”

“I did it right?”

“You did!”

Sméagol seemed to feel that he had now had enough exercise. He sat quietly and looked at his sapling until Faelon had finished planting and moved on to watering.

“What’s he doing?” Sméagol asked.

“I’m giving them a drink.”

He stared. “Trees takes drinks?”

“Yes, they are alive, and need water, especially when they’re in a new place and expected to grow. They’re near the pond and usually won’t need help to get water, I think, but after just being planted they’ll be especially thirsty. Would you like to water the one you planted?”

Sméagol looked as if he was not sure he would like to- he still seemed to find the idea of plants being alive somehow alarming, but he took the watering can and watered the sapling the way Faelon showed him, then took a drink himself from the dregs of the watering can before Faelon could stop him. It would not be much use to tell him the water wasn’t clean enough. Faelon did not comment.

“Smelling the water makes me thirsty,” Sméagol said.

“I understand,” said Faelon, taking the watering can back.

“That one is a willow, isn’t it?”

“It is! So you do know a little about trees. I thought you might. I suppose you know willows from the River.”

“Yes, I do.”

“One day this will be as large as the willows you remember,” said Faelon, as he watered the last tree. “You’ll be able to climb them. Birds will nest in them and lay eggs.”

“One day… yes.” His voice was soft and regretful.

In fact there was no guarantee whatever that he would live long enough to see that tree grow. It was an utter mystery how long he would live. It was a mystery for most people, of course, and no one was guaranteed the span of years to see a tree grow- but it was a more pressing mystery to the very old, and Faelon regretting calling his charge’s attention to it.

“That is done,” said Faelon quickly. “I’ll be returning to the garden house to get the things for my next project… you are welcome to come with me or go home, if you are tired.”

“I am, a bit,” Sméagol admitted. “I’d like to go back and sleep now. Silly Sméagol changng his mind.”

“Not at all. I’ve enjoyed having you with me.”

“And I’ve enjoyed being a tagalong with him,” Sméagol said so quietly it was hard to hear. He glanced back at the trees as they left.

When Faelon was an old man and had many grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and had planted whole thickets of trees on the grounds of Minas Tirith and on the ravaged plains of Mordor, he would still think of the willow in the Sixth Circle as Sméagol’s tree.

Chapter Text

The messenger had chosen the wrong time to approach Sméagol.

The night before, he had been in Mordor, for the first time since the Eye had closed forever. The familiar surroundings seemed blunted of their terror, de-fanged, and somewhat unreal. The Black Gate stood open. It had been partly dismantled and would never close again.

The work he was brought to do had been trifling and not worth telling about. He was to creep into a seemingly abandoned storeroom and check for dangerous traps or hidden orcs- he did this, and found none. The task was so swiftly finished that he even- in a fit of madness, perhaps- argued that something else ought to be found for him to do as the Men had taken the trouble to bring him all this way in a horse-cart (and, he left implied, Sméagol had taken the trouble to come, and even if they let him go now his night had been ruined so they may as well use him while he was here). They ended up setting him to various things that Sméagol felt to really be beneath his talents, such as crawling through the window of a locked building to open the door from inside, things an ordinary hobbit or even a small Man could do. But it had all gone well, and then he had conferred with a few Men making a detailed map of the area before leaving- this left him with the impression that he had been very helpful, very clever and knowledgeable, overall valuable and worth his keep, and he thought he had even been calm and polite over it. If he wept bitterly on the way home, it was nobody’s business.

Tonight the world seemed to have had all its colors muted. Smells were not quite what they should be. Sounds were too loud and too startling. Sméagol’s food tasted unpleasant and felt even more unpleasant when it was in his stomach, and the familiar presence of the guards across the yard from his window was menacing. They were watching him- they could cross the yard to him so quickly on those big long legs if he did something out of order.

He sat in his window with his favorite, most comfortable housecoat feeling heavy and itchy on his back, and the wind stirring his lightweight, lank hair so that the faint motion of it bothered his skin, and the smell of the Sun that had soaked into the grass during the day reminding him that he would never walk on two legs in the daylight again.

Then the messenger showed up. He was a fresh-faced boy with wide and somewhat stupid eyes, and he looked anxious.

He has heard of us, Sméagol thought, and he’s thinking we might bite or do something nasty, which he resented, foolish! Sméagol isn’t so important that everyone’s heard of him, the boy only looks that way because he’s in a hurry and he doesn’t know us at all, which he resented just as much.

The messenger bowed, which Sméagol resented even more, and said: “Good eve to you, my lord.”

Sméagol gave him a sideways look and said nothing.

The messenger smelled of sweat. “I have been sent to convey to you a royal invitation. King Elessar is convening a small dinner gathering some days hence. As the final hand in the destruction of Isildur’s Bane, you would be most welcome as an honored guest.”

Aragorn had pulled this sort of stunt before. What was he playing at? He didn’t want Sméagol at his parties. No one did- excepting perhaps Boromir, who often did not seem to think these things through. Sméagol would do nothing at a party but take up a chair, be ugly, make nasty comments and stink. Aragorn kept inviting him knowing he would refuse. Expecting him to refuse. Wanting him to refuse. Making him refuse.

Sméagol showed his fangs in a lopsided grin. “An honored guesst, he says? Then we must go, mustn’t we? Tell the King we will be there, early, with bellses on if he likes. And in our best clothes. Yes. We’ll have our hair combed and all, gollum.”

“Very well,” said the messenger. “Anything else?”

“Ask him to tell us if there will be Elves at the party.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

“Ask him if the nicest people will be there.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

“Ask him if there will be dancing and music.”

“Very well. Anything else?”

“No, you stupid boy,” said Sméagol. “There was never anything else. Loitering where you’re not wanted. Go away!”

If the messenger took this to heart, it was only later, after his relief to be allowed to leave had worn off. Sméagol, it must be confessed, did not feel guilty at all. He sat in the window grumbling for a while after the boy had left, and then he began to feel feverish and went inside to wrap himself up in a blanket. He soon forgot all about the whole thing.

But then Aragorn showed up.

This was the next night. Sméagol was sprawled out in the grass by his window- he felt better tonight but did not want to shut himself up inside, because he found himself starting to worry and fret that he would try to get out by the window or the door and find them both locked. No one had ever locked him in, and it did not make sense to fret about it, but he could not stop fretting, so he must go outside and feel the breeze on his face.

In the evening Eardwulf had brought him a strange thing, a group of rings all locked together that were meant to have some trick by which they were pulled apart without opening them. Sméagol had been unable to find the trick, and after trying too many times for his patience to withstand, began biting the toy in frustration. In the process he discovered that the rings were an excellent texture and hardness for chewing and were without any sharp points or corners that would trouble his mouth. Also, at this time in his life he derived a certain wicked pleasure in attacking something that was Ring-shaped.

In short, when the King arrived Sméagol was lying on his belly chewing on a toy and growling as if he were an animal, and this operation also made him drool a bit. He was half-asleep, too, because dawn was near and he had slept poorly for the past few days, and when he realized he had company, he suspected he had had a stupid look on his face in addition to gnawing and drooling and being shaped like a flattened spider.

Aragorn crouched down to get a little closer. Sméagol backed up halfway into the window and blinked and brushed bits of grass off of his cheek. It took him a moment longer to remember to drop the toy, letting it fall from his mouth with his head hung in shame, like a dog.

“Good morning to you!” said Aragorn as if this was all quite normal. “I am well pleased that you accepted my dinner invitation. I came by to have a brief word with you, as you had passed along some questions about the matter.”

He was dressed in a style befitting a King, and there were people standing behind him who looked like nobles (and they also looked a bit confused to be at Sméagol’s house, but they were too polite to say anything). Aragorn had not slipped away in the dark behaving like a Ranger dealing with an unsavory person, but was stopping on his way to somewhere public, in the role of a King visiting one of his wards.

“Sss,” said Sméagol stupidly. He blotted his mouth on his sleeve.

“Indeed there will be Elves,” said Aragorn. “But not many. To be truthful, they usually have particular people they seek out to speak with at gatherings and are rather unlikely to choose to speak to you unless you approach them. Therefore, I would not fear that you will be harangued by the Eldar.”

“Is that so? It is a dinner-party, he says?”

“Indeed. As for the nicest people,” said Aragorn, “I do not know if you meant you were hoping to see a particular friend of yours. I can tell you that I deem my guests to be of very fine quality. I should hope you agree. You may, if you choose, bring a guest of your own. Boromir has already been invited, but you may invite him again if you wish; he would enjoy that.”

“Begging his pardon,” said Sméagol, “the nice Man- the very gracious King- but, I, I don’t go to parties, so I don’t think I said we would go. Did I?”

“I was told that you did,” said Aragorn. “And that lastly, you asked if there would be music. There will be music- I know not whether there will be dancing. I do not intend to set time aside for that specific purpose or insist that my guests dance. There are always some who choose to dance when they hear music, whether they are given special encouragement or no. If you wish to dance you are welcome.”

“We do not wish- no,” said Sméagol. He had a creeping dread that he had done something stupid.

“Are you fond of music, Sméagol?” There was a soft frown on Aragorn’s face. It was so far from snideness that Sméagol was disarmed into honesty.

“I don’t know any longer.”

“I see. Perhaps you will find out.”

“But,” Sméagol ventured, “we said we would come? Did we, really?”

Now he did dimly remember speaking to the messenger, and he remembered asking the questions- but he had not spoken politely, and any reasonable person would know he was not really agreeing to do anything. The messenger had passed along Sméagol’s sarcastic questions, so surely he had conveyed something of the tone?

(To treat Sméagol with perfect fairness, now, in retrospect, he did feel a bit guilty for calling the boy stupid, even if he was all the more certain the boy really was stupid. He couldn't help being stupid. It wasn't nice to insult people for things they couldn't help.)

“You agreed to attend, yes. I must warn you that my other guests will require light, but I don’t wish you to be in pain or have your eyes troubled too much. You will have a dim corner, not so far off that you can’t hear the others or speak to them if you wish to, but enough to afford you some privacy.”

“Dark- yes,” said Sméagol. He had always thought Aragorn did not really mean him to accept these invitations.

“It is a small gathering and ought not to overwhelm you. My other guests will have knowledge of you, and will not stare. I know you dislike to be watched too closely, and I don’t wish you to feel as if you were invited to serve as a curiosity. But I am afraid I will have to introduce you. That is the treatment afforded a guest.”

Surely Aragorn had not meant him to accept the invitation! He was reminding Sméagol of all the things he did not like about being out in public with other people, trying to call his bluff. It must be a punishment for being rude to the messenger boy, and that was why he’d brought others to watch- to make it more shameful. Sméagol felt an inward pang he could not name. He ought to take the way out and beg off, of course, and slink away. He did not think consciously of swallowing his pride, because in these matters he had not thought he possessed any.

“Gollum! And how will he introduce us?” he asked, rather coldly.

“By your name and whichever deeds of yours you’d like to have spoken of,” said Aragorn. “It will be brief. The main goal of the evening is to have a dinner, which for you will be an early breakfast if you choose to partake with us. If you would rather eat beforehand or afterwards that is well enough, but if you would like to join in the dinner you will be provided with food to your liking. I do not expect you to eat what the others are eating, or to be made to go hungry.”

I changed my mind, Sméagol thought. We was joking. We doesn’t want to go to your silly party with Elves and Men.

“O… yes, thanks ye… no, he mustn’t worry, we will eat before we goes, no one will have to look at Sméagol’s nasty food.” His tone was deferential and penitent.

“Very well! That is entirely your choice,” said Aragorn. “I shall see you a fortnight hence at sunset, then. I don’t believe you know the place, so someone will be sent to guide you. Farewell, and rest well.”

Sméagol huddled in his window and plucked at the grass. He had spent a great deal of time talking to himself over the years, but not as much time listening. Now he wondered if perhaps, somewhere deep inside that he did not want to think about, he wanted to go to the party even if he was certain he would not enjoy it. Otherwise, why had he not taken the chance to say he did not want to go? It wasn’t as if he was shy about being rude to Aragorn.

“O no no, that is not it,” he said hastily, withdrawing into the cellar where it was more private. “No, my precious, we simply would not give him the satisfaction of saying we refused to go. It’s this way, eh? We will make him go out of his way to put aside tables and food for us, thinking we are going to turn up and worrying about what we may do and say in front of his guests- yes, yes! But then we will not come, eh? Make him wait and worry that we will be underfoot any moment, and stay safe in our cellar, gollum! And that will teach him not to go inviting us any longer. He will think, Sméagol almost really did come to the party! I had better not ask him again!”

“But then,” he said with some hesitation, “it will teach him better if I really do go, won’t it? All ugly and sitting in the corner.” He sniffled. “And making nasty noiseses, gollum!” He blotted his eyes on his sleeve.

What would it even be like? He thought about parties he had seen before. He had snuck into orcish victory feasts (and thought the food excellent, particularly the feasters). He had spied on a few small gatherings in Lake-town and in the homes of the Woodmen.

In long ago days Gran had organized village celebrations. There had been tables with food, and lights, and people. So many people. Too many people.

Why did he have no memories of parties where people did not eye him sideways and mutter about him- if they knew he was there at all? Had he always been rotten? Like a molding fruit in a barrel?

These things kept him from thinking as much as he otherwise would have about Mordor, and its dry familiar dust that had clung to his hands, and the desperate foulness that lay over everything, and the orc-smells everywhere- they had died there in droves and been burned. They had left behind the reek of blood and fear. If Sméagol had found orcs, those, too, would likely have been killed. They would have been driven out and slaughtered like rabbits.

The next evening, Sméagol woke before the sun quite went down, and went absent-mindedly through the familiar motions of breakfast and bathtime and dressing- no one had asked to see him tonight and he was free to wear whatever he thought was comfortable. He had just finished putting on his shirt when Eardwulf softly called his name.

“Yes?” Sméagol asked. “Yes, what is it?”

“Why did you not finish your breakfast?”

He turned, blinking. “Didn’t we?”

“You didn’t.” Eardwulf was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking solemn.

“Sméagol cannot be hungry every minute.”

“Yes, you can, when you have a mind to be,” said Eardwulf gently. “You’ve been unusually quiet as well and your eyes see something far away. What are your thoughts?”

Did Men like to kill orcs? Did they think the orcs deserved it? Even if they thought the orcs deserved it, did they think it brutal and nasty to put them to death? Or did they glory in it?

If he dared to ask a Man these questions- and it would be better not to ask- he had better be careful whom he chose. Eardwulf would not think less of him for asking, but he was not a soldier and may not know the answer. Also, he had not wished Sméagol to return to Barad-dur and might try to keep him from going back if he knew-

If he knew what? Sméagol wondered. That we didn’t like it? Of course we didn’t! And perhaps it is best if he says we can’t go back. We don’t wish to!

Yet he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead he said: “The King asked us to one of his parties again.”

“Ah. And that troubles you?”

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “It troubles us because we went and said we’d go, gollum! I don’t know what came over me.”

“You accepted his invitation… I see,” said Eardwulf slowly. He tapped his foot. Sméagol flinched- the sound seemed very loud to him. Fortunately Eardwulf stopped right away. “Why did you accept it? Do you wish to go?”

“No! No, of course not, gollum!” He hissed and put the heels of his hands over his eyes (they felt hot and dry). “It was a little joke, that is all, one of our little jokes- I was being an ass!” He crawled under the bed (hiding under the head of it, while Eardwulf sat at the foot).

“Ah. You said something you didn’t mean to be taken as seriously as it was. Then there is no trouble,” said Eardwulf, quite calm. “If you wish it I can simply send the King a message on your behalf to explain that you did not intend to accept the invitation. Or I can tell him you’ve changed your mind, if you prefer. You are free to change your mind. You do not need to go, if you don’t wish it.”

“Yes, yes, we must say we won’t do it. But we have said no before and he has asked again. He will ask again.”

“He will stop asking if you tell him it upsets you. I could tell him to stop on your behalf, if you prefer.”

“Ought we to go?”

“Do you want to?”

“No, no!”

“Yet you seem unwilling to decline the invitation,” said Eardwulf. “I promise you, you will not be punished or scolded. It was not meant as a binding oath.”

“I don’t wish to go,” said Sméagol, “only, I wonders what it would be like, I do, to be the King’s guest.” He shook himself. “It is a joke, some kind of nasty trick, it is, gollum! He doesn’t want me! Whatever would he want me there for?”

“He has confessed to me that it seems as if he is shamed by you when you are never seen in public.”

“But we are in public,” Sméagol said, blinking. “We sits in our window with it open and people sees us. And we- I goes out into the city and people sees me there too. What more does he wish for?”

“You are not seen by high society,” said Eardwulf. “In the King’s company. Do you recall when Lord Denethor approached you to speak with you? It was a long time ago-“

“O we remembers. Yes, we will remember it always and forever, gollum!”

“Did he not say you were being held captive in the dark?”

“Yes- yes, he did, it was very strange, when the King was letting us go out and about whenever we wanted.”

“But were you not spending most of your time secluded in the dark? I am afraid it is hard to comprehend that you can really prefer the dark and quiet so much- it begins to sound like an excuse for keeping you out of sight. Think what that will do to the King’s reputation. He wishes to be seen as a fair and just ruler who rewards deeds that benefit his people. It would not do for people to believe that King Elessar forces the destroyer of Isildur’s Bane to remain hidden because it would be inconvenient in some way for you to be visible.”

Sméagol mulled this over. “Sss, sss. Or for peoples to begin to wonder what we are. Denethor thought we was doing witchery, or some foolish thing like that.”

“That is so. Lord Denethor was predisposed to fear for his people and assume the worst, I think there are few others who would assume such things- but of course if you are never seen, they might believe you are anything at all. Not everyone could attend your trial and not everyone in the city meets you when you go out visiting.”

“The fool Man, why does he not tell us so? If that is why, I’ll take my medicine and go sit and be looked at,” he groused. “If we would go back to the Shadow-lands for the King we would go to a party for him, even if we has less business being there. Why does he play games with us?”

Eardwulf stood up, took a few slow footsteps to the head of the bed and crouched down to look under the frame at Sméagol, who blinked balefully back at him.

“I think he could not bear to force you,” said Eardwulf. “He dislikes for you to do things you find distressing. Recall that you offered to go to Barad-dur and help the rangers. You had to insist on it.”

Sméagol sighed. It was bad enough to have to do things he did not want to do without people making him beg to do them on top of it.

“Do not think he misunderstands or devalues your willingness to do what must be done,” said Eardwulf. “On the contrary. He knows very well that if he so much as hints to you that you ought to go, you will believe you must go. He desired it to be your free choice. Why do you not wish to go? Do you fear a poor reception?”

“I am not nice at parties,” said Sméagol. “I never was. No, never. Even when I had my own skin around me. Why should it be different now?”

“Why should it not be different?” said Eardwulf. “Indeed you have changed. The changes need not all be in the direction of liking things less. Perhaps you would enjoy a party if you went to it now. Lord Boromir will be there, I expect. You enjoy time with him.”

“But what if I hates the party?”

“I cannot imagine the King would force you to remain at the party if you decided you did not like it, when he did not force you to attend in the first place.”

Sméagol rested his chin on the floor. “Perhaps not. And he said…” He had been about to say that the King had said he’d feed Sméagol at the party but then he remembered something far more important. “He said we might bring a guest!” He poked his head out from under the bed. “Perhaps Eardwulf might come?”

“If you wish it,” said Eardwulf. If he in fact, perhaps, hated parties himself, he could hardly let on now, or his encouraging talk would be ruined. Sméagol suspected nothing amiss.

“Yes,” said Sméagol, “he will come and we will have someone to talk to, it was always so much better when Déagol was there, and we could talk, and make funs of ugly people, and steal things! Not really steal, only take more helpings than they said we could, ha, ha! Sméagol did not really steal anything until after Precious came and started doing things to him. At least nothing much- nothing that anyone missed very much- but he knows better now, and does not steal at all now, but Eardwulf will come with us, won’t he, won’t he? He’ll come and sit with Sméagol and not let him be alone in the dark?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Eardwulf, “only- it occurs to me that Faelon may feel disappointed when he hears of it, for he is young and would find a royal party very exciting.”

“O! Yes, Faelon. He’s only a baby, isn’t he? He must come, then, but perhaps the King will let us have both if we asks. Sméagol does not take up very much space, so it is only fair to let him have two guests, since there is room, eh? And if he wants us to go so badly he will not say no, not when our guests is such nice people!”

“Indeed you may ask,” said Eardwulf, “but I do beg you, if the King only permits one of us, twould only be fair to allow Faelon to go in my stead.”

“Yes, yes. Nice Man, so kind!” Sméagol crawled out from under the bed. “Yes,” he said brightly, “and perhaps-“

He fell silent.

“Yes?” Eardwulf asked.

“Nothing, nothing! It is nothing.” It was not nothing. He had thought for a moment that he could also invite Déagol, and had realized his mistake like a slap to the face.

Sometimes he felt as if he had simply taken a wrong turn heading home in the willow-lands, and had woken up in Minas Tirith, in the strange, warped body he now inhabited; then his memories of the intervening years would come back with a scent or a sight or a familiar voice, and he would have to acknowledge where he had been all that time and what he had been doing.

“Are you feeling ill, polliwog?” Eardwulf asked. “I don’t think the idea of attending the King’s party would put quite that look of pain upon your face.”

“No… Sméagol is old and he has aches.” This was even true. The temperature had dropped suddenly overnight and the cart he had ridden to Mordor in had jostled him, and for both of these reasons Sméagol’s back was painful at the moment. “Perhaps he’d ask someone to send us some willow bark?”

“Certainly,” said Eardwulf. “I must send the King a message about your choice of guests as well. Farewell.”

He went back upstairs with loud, thumping Man-steps. Men shook the world when they walked. They shook the world when they did anything.

Sméagol crawled back under the bed.

The next evening he was given a letter from the King, which said that both Eardwulf and Faelon could attend if Sméagol wished it.

“Of course he said yes. He wants us to have more baby-sitters,” Sméagol said under his breath. “Sss, sss, but we doesn’t mind, because we wants to have them too. Otherwise we may be trampled, so many Men all around. What’s this next part about? There will be more Elfs than he thought would be there, eh?” He read it over again more carefully. Some of the party-guests had been responsible for overseeing Sméagol’s captivity in Mirkwood. “So was the King, my precious. What does it matter to us anymore? Sss! He isn’t getting rid of us so easy. He had his chances.” He dashed off a quick reply saying good Sméagol would be there and would be very good, his very best of all, and would be nice to all of the Elves that the nice King wanted to invite.

Perhaps the King had been insinuating that those Elves would be unhappy to see Sméagol and not the reverse.

“He’ll have to come tell us hisself if he wants us not to come after all,” he grumbled.

The day of the party came. Sméagol woke in the afternoon and could not go back to sleep. Suilorion was stationed outside. Sméagol went out to sit under his table, where he had shelter from the Sun, and asked the old Man if he had liked to kill orcs, because he knew Suilorion had been in the army.

“I suppose I did,” said Suilorion, “when I knew it was my blade that kept them from overrunning my home or slaying my friends! Then I liked killing them very much indeed! When they were fleeing or fearful I felt rather guilty for killing them, but they would have rallied and come back if I spared them so I did not worry much about that.”

“Sss, sss. That is sensible enough.”

“They say you have killed orcs yourself,” said Suilorion. “You must have had a shortsword no bigger than a pocket-knife!”

“No, didn’t have a sword,” said Sméagol. “Baggins did. Bilbo Baggins. He gave it to the Master later on, Frodo Baggins, the one you calls the Ring-bearer.” Their full personal names felt odd in his mouth- he was not sure they would have liked him to speak of them in such a familiar manner. He had only meant to try keeping the two Bagginses apart. The Master had seemed much less likely to really use the sword. “It was a pocket-knife to you, I suppose. To me it looked big enough- it would have taken off my head well enough if he had wished it, gollum! He only let us go because he felt sorry for us. But I had no swords or knifes. I used my hands.”

“Did you like killing orcs?”

Sméagol noted that this was an unpleasant question to ask someone. Perhaps he ought to think a little more about what he asked people in future. “We did, I think. We was angry all of the time and wanted everyone to ssuffer, perhaps. I would not like to kill an orc now. O no! Orcs has enough problems without Sméagol killing them!”

Just then someone arrived with his breakfast on a tray. It was a new person, who looked a little nervous.

“Hello, hello!” Sméagol told her breezily. “What’s that look for, eh? Sméagol doesn’t bite. She’ll come in and put that on the table, won’t she, the poor timid little mouse?”

“I hope you do not fear the mite!” Suilorion added. “He is harmless as a kitten.”

Kittens had rather sharp claws. Sméagol wondered if the woman had overheard him saying he’d killed orcs. “Come in, come in, she needn’t come in very far. No. Jusst here. Thanks ye. Now she can go, she’d like to go.”

The woman left quickly enough, but she dipped a little bow to him before she went. Sméagol shook his head and sat down to eat. He poked at his food a little, and glowered. His stomach was fluttering. “Ach!” he said rudely. “It’s just the King.” But he could not make himself eat a bite.

He went back out to Suilorion, who had dealt two hands of cards. Two hands? Yes- some time ago they had wagered that if Sméagol lost two games of chess out of three, Suilorion would make him learn to play whatever game he wanted. And Sméagol had lost.

“No time for playing!” Sméagol said very politely. “We must get ready! The King’s asked for us. Good night, good night!” He slipped back inside to stare at his food.

Faelon and Eardwulf came soon after that. They said Sméagol did not have to eat if he wasn’t hungry, and his breakfast would not go to waste because Eardwulf’s hounds could still eat it, and if he felt hungry later more food could be brought to him, so he shouldn’t worry.

They filled the washtub and Sméagol scrubbed himself very well, as he knew he must really be clean and not simply play in the water- the Men had to stop him scrubbing when he began to make his skin raw. They helped him into his best clothes and brought him out the door.

Sméagol burst into tears. “I can’t!”

There was a brief moment of silence as his two minders conferred without words.

“Yes, you can,” Eardwulf said calmly. In secret, they might, perhaps, have both been planning to call things off and go apologize to King Elessar if Sméagol said ‘I can’t’ one more time, but Sméagol did not know this and did not say it. He dried his eyes and followed the two Men, hanging his head as if he were going to his own execution.

When they reached the area, there were groups of people lingering outside, talking and laughing. Sméagol drew back, trembling and looking from face to face, all of them bright-eyed and happy, and utterly overpowering. Finally his gaze landed on the brightest, the happiest, the most noble face in the group.

Sméagol did not intend to escape from Eardwulf and Faelon. He liked to have them near, after all. He just went straight to where he wanted to go with no care for whether they were following, and quickly left them behind.

He also did not realize that some of the people there were intended to keep guests from going to certain places. There were two women in his way, and he slipped between them like an eel, thinking they just happened to be loitering where they would block his path. Just past them was the Lady, sitting at a table and talking with someone next to her. Her laugh was like silver bells, ear-splitting and yet irresistible. When next she looked down, she saw Sméagol grinning up at her like an eager dog. If this sight inspired any feeling in her less pleasant than affectionate surprise, she successfully concealed it.

“Why, it is Sméagol!” she said. “I am so pleased to see you. I was told you were coming, and I have been waiting for you.”

“O!” said Sméagol. “She remembers us, my precious. She thought of us. She waited for us. She wants us.” He sank in on himself with his hands and feet tucked under his body in the kind of satisfied manner that usually only cats manage to achieve.

“Indeed I do,” said the Lady. She signaled to one of her friends sitting nearby, and this friend gave up her chair. “Please take a chair, Sméagol, I cannot see your face as I would like to when you huddle at my feet, and I would rather the destroyer of the Ring not be so low down.”

He hopped up onto the chair, forgetting, in his eagerness to draw near, that he preferred his face not to be seen. Up here, her presence was palpable like the warmth of a fire. His heart shuddered within him and for a moment it nearly remembered what it was to look at the sunset, or gaze up at the face of the Moon, and find the light beautiful.

“I hope you do not think I have forgotten your tutor,” she said. “I wish to be certain I have found someone who will be suitable, for it would not be well to trifle with your time.”

“Yes, yes, of course, these things takes time, of course!” Sméagol himself had forgotten about the tutor at the moment. “But she is still looking? How long is she staying in the City, my precious?” he asked, forgetting in his excitement to ask her instead of himself (after all he did not know the answer).

She laughed merrily. “Why, a long time, I should hope. I am sorry I did not tell you. I live here.”

“Forever? Forever and ever?”

“Not forever and ever, for all things must end one day.”

“Of course, yes. All things.”

“I hope I shall be here a long time.”

“Sss, sss, will she not be lonely?” He swung his paddle-feet. “There aren’t any other Elves that lives here. Just visits.”

“Are you lonely for hobbit-kind, Sméagol?”

“No,” he said, rather surly. “Yes, we are, but not for anyone who is still alive. Our sort is gone, forever. No one to be lonely for anymore.”

“I see. That is a hardship,” she said. He expected her to offer up the Shire-hobbits who were not the same thing at all, but instead she said: “My people are leaving for the sea. The home I knew will not remain, and would not be there if I tried to return. And so my past is gone, and I have chosen to follow this city of Men into the new age that is coming. There is more future remaining for Men than for Elves in this world.”

Sméagol had never thought of Elves as people whose families could go away and leave them adrift and alone. Without thinking he caught up the Lady’s sleeve. “Why are they going without her? Gollum! Did they not want her? Did they not like her?”

“We parted on good terms,” she said. “There was no strife. It is only that they must go- and I must remain.”

He saw his hand fastened on her sleeve. He had been using his hands to help him balance and they were smudged with dirt. “I’ve dirtied her sleeve,” he said.

Her voice was soft. “Your touch is not evil. It cannot tarnish me.”

He let go of her sleeve, or rather, it slipped from his grasp- he felt a little dizzy.

She went on speaking: “I have strayed from your question; yes, there will be times when I miss my people terribly. But the people of Gondor are my people now as well. Are not those your people just over there, Sméagol? They look as if they would join you if they could.”

He looked up, squinting in the light. Eardwulf and Faelon were standing nearby. They couldn’t get in close to the Lady because her friends had taken all the available chairs. “O! Yes, just standing there. What is to be done with them, I wonder? Is there more chairs?”

“Alas! There is no room for more chairs at this table,” said the Lady. “I fear I am keeping you to myself. We will have more opportunity to talk later on and I ought not keep you from your place. There is a table set aside for you and your friends, and I see you are flinching in the light. Go to your people and let them lead you where you will be more comfortable- do not fear, you and I shall meet again very soon!”

“Yes- yes, Lady,” he simpered, and slunk off to meet up with his minders, patting their shins. “We didn’t forget about them, did we?”

They led him away. He followed with his eyes closed against the light- he could navigate by sound and feel perfectly well, especially with someone to guide him.

“I did not know you were such a great friend of Queen Evenstar,” Faelon remarked in awe.

“Queen?” Sméagol asked. “O yes, she said so. She said she is a Queen. Ss. We forgets sometimes.” He went silent, and for a moment lost himself in his surroundings, which felt more real and solid with his eyes closed. The grass had a cool, damp smell, sour to him and a bit strong. Just ahead was the milder scent of stone and the sounds of footsteps in that direction had a harder impact. He would feel the stone under his hands soon and would have to be careful he did not put them down too forcefully or jam his fingers.

“Sss, sss,” he said. “She is married to Aragorn, isn’t she?”

“King Elessar? Yes,” said Faelon.

Sméagol turned this over in his mind the way he would turn over a rock, getting the weight and the texture of it. “Whatever would she want to marry old Strider for?” The Lady- no- the Queen’s motives were as far out of his reach as an angler’s were to a fish. She existed in a realm above his and moved in a different medium.

“They are in love,” Faelon said.

“Love,” said Sméagol. “I don’t know anything about love. O no! It sounds oddly when I even says it. Love. Sméagol doesn’t have anything to do with that!”

His hands and feet felt stone tile beneath them now and the voices around him echoed so that he could not now tell where people were in relation to himself. He huddled close to Eardwulf, who was at his left side.

“Is that so, Sméagol?” said Eardwulf. “I know you do not love in the way that makes people choose to marry, but if you had not told me otherwise I would have thought you did love in your own way, and fiercely, too.”

“What makes him think so?” Sméagol asked in surprise.

Eardwulf was saved from a long, patient, difficult explanation by someone almost stepping on Sméagol. All Sméagol knew about it was that Faelon was suddenly talking to someone in a tense manner. “Be more careful where you put your feet, I beg you; here is the destroyer of Isildur’s Bane. He is troubled by the light and cannot see to avoid you.”

“What is it?” Sméagol squeaked. “Who is there?” He squinted upwards, but there was a profusion of torches in the area. He could only see that it was an Elf.

“It is only I,” the Elf said merrily. “A thousand pardons I beg of you, Sméagol. You have a talent for making yourself difficult to notice, even to keen eyes. I intended no harm and certainly I should not wish to make your feet any flatter by treading on them. You are looking remarkably clean and brushed and fat. You prefer the husbandry of Men to that of Elves, I deem.”

“I suppose,” said Sméagol. “I was very ill when the Elves had us, very ill, and did not even know it; it was a madness. Gone now. It sounds as if he knows us. I do not remember you, very nice Elf. I hope Sméagol did not bite him.”

“What very fine manners the Men have taught you!” the Elf laughed. Sméagol winced. The sound of Elven laughter still hurt his ears. “You are like to exceed them for politeness at this rate. I am afraid you did bite me, but I have forgiven you. Now I must rejoin my friends- farewell!”

“Good night, good night!” He turned towards Eardwulf. “Who was he?”

“I know not,” said Eardwulf. “A tall Elf and fair-haired. Many of the Eldar are tall and fair-haired. Let us make haste to our assigned table, little one, before someone else is less cautious and more drunken than he.”

The table was tucked into a dark corner as Aragorn had promised, and lit only by candles. Sméagol could see the faces of his companions again.

“They’ve put out a high chair for us,” he noted.

“I suppose it was easier than a low table,” said Eardwulf.

Sméagol perched in the chair and leaned his elbows comfortably on the table. “Now what?” he said.

“I know not,” said Faelon. He was looking into the lighted areas of the room where Sméagol could not see, and his face showed that he was intrigued by what he found there. “I have never been to a gathering of this type before.”

“We wait,” said Eardwulf quietly, for Sméagol’s ears and not the young Man’s. “We wait and listen to a few remarks made by important people, and then we wait again. If we are lucky, someone remembers to bring food to our table. We eat, and wait to be dismissed.”

He had explained some of this before but had not sounded quite so dour. “Yes, yes,” said Sméagol. “Has he been to a party of the King’s before?”

“Only the gatherings hosted by Lord Denethor when he was Steward.”

“It may be different,” said Sméagol. “The King is different, and he is strange, isn’t he?”

“Yes, perhaps,” mused Eardwulf. “I expect the food shall be better.”

Just then, musicians started playing beyond the light. Sméagol listened intently. He decided in the end that he did not like music. At least, not this sort of music.

He discovered that someone was standing at his shoulder, and looked up in fright to see Aragorn.

“I am sorry, Sméagol, I thought you knew he was there,” said Faelon as Sméagol scuffled and hissed. “I didn’t wish to disturb you. I could tell you were listening to the music…”

“Certainly I did not intend to frighten you,” said Aragorn quietly. “I apologize.”

“O yes! It is nothing, he mustn’t mind it,” said Sméagol in the tone of someone who is actually quite put out and doesn’t want to admit it.

Aragorn’s voice was low and serious. “I would like to introduce you. May I introduce you?” He had asked Sméagol but he looked at Eardwulf for some reason.

“Introduce us, sss,” said Sméagol. Going in he had decided that he would do whatever Aragorn wanted, but now he had to actually go and do it. “What’s he mean? What will he do?”

“I wish to tell my guests your name and how you helped Frodo Baggins on his quest.” It was rare to hear Frodo called by name, instead of ‘the Ring-bearer’, and Sméagol leaned in closer at the sound of it. “Is that acceptable to you?”

“Yes,” he said cautiously, noticing Eardwulf’s nod of approval.

“That is good,” said Aragorn. “I would like also to bring you out where my guests can see you for a moment. Then you may come back to the table.”

Sméagol did not at once reply to this. Of course he didn’t want to be where Aragorn’s guests could see him, but he had been mad enough to come- he would be mad enough to go all the way. “O yes,” he said, “yes, whyever not?”

“Very good. Then I shall do so now. Come with me, please.”

“Now?”

“Now seems to me the ideal time, so that you need not wait, and can be released from your obligations. Come here, please.”

Sméagol followed him into the brighter part of the room, closing his eyes against the light. When they stopped, Aragorn announced: “Friends! Look to me. All who are present tonight are honored guests, but there is one among us who must be afforded special honors, for without his deeds we may all yet be facing the shadow of Sauron.” He turned to Sméagol, who was huddled at his feet, wincing to hear the name of the Eye spoken so openly.

Aragorn made a gesture. He was gesturing for Sméagol to climb up in a nearby chair, but Sméagol could not see him very well, hadn’t noticed the chair, and was accustomed to Eardwulf and Faelon gesturing that way when they were inviting him to be helped up onto something or carried down the stairs.

O no, I don’t know him well enough, he thought, and I don’t think I likes him well enough either, but I suppose he is the King and I dursn’t balk him in front of all of these Elves. He held out his arms to be picked up. Aragorn hesitated only a fraction of a second. It was just long enough for Sméagol to wonder if he had misconstrued things terribly, but before he could realize that this was indeed what had happened, and put his arms down, Aragorn had changed course and picked him up.

He was wonderfully gentle! He knew where to place his hands without either being too forward, or being too timid and barely holding on and making Sméagol feel like he was on the verge of being dropped on his head! He knew to lift slowly and not swing Sméagol around like a dead cat! And in the next instant he had set Sméagol down on something and released him. Sméagol could feel the force of eyes on him and knew he was visible. He trembled.

“This is Sméagol of the Anduin,” said Aragorn in a clear, kingly voice. “He safely led the Ring-bearer through the Mere of Dead Men and brought him undetected into Mordor. On the Ring-bearer’s order, Sméagol’s hand cast Isildur’s Bane into the fire, and without him the War of the Ring would have been lost.”

A cheer went up. It was a small gathering by a King’s standards but to Sméagol the cheer was deafening. He huddled and trembled. Was the cheer for him? For Aragorn? For Frodo?

He scrambled backwards, and collided with a Man’s warm hand. “Calm, calm, Sméagol!” said Boromir. “If you can withstand the Black Tower I would hope you can withstand a little cheering- if only for one night! Have you not earned it?”

Sméagol continued to tremble. The cheers were abating.

“What is the matter?” Aragorn inquired.

“Loud,” Sméagol said in a tiny voice.

“I suppose that is why this is the first time he’s appeared in public so,” a distant voice said. “And he just so happened to choose tonight.”

“Indeed,” said Aragorn. “And it is well. I and mine owe a great debt to the sagacity of King Thranduil in the care he took of the creature at my request.”

“You mean you are glad I let him escape!” the voice announced. “Prettily said, but twas not so simple as that.”

“My friend,” said Aragorn, “you mistake my words. I was thanking you for taking him in. If you had not, if I had been forced to bring him elsewhere, I doubt he would have been in place to assist the Ring-bearer. It is a matter of great import to me that he was- not only for the sake of my people but for myself, for Frodo Baggins is my friend and Sméagol was there to guide him when I could not be.”

No one was mentioning Shelob. Sméagol felt a little bit sick.

“Very well!” said Thranduil. “That is all true and well spoken enough, if incomplete; yet there remains the fact that he would not have been there had he not escaped. He left a trail of my people wounded or dead in his wake as he departed, but I must treat fairly with him- the violence was the doing of orcs, not Sméagol, and likely they would have attacked at that time or a little later, no matter whether he was being held with us or not. And I am sure Sméagol saw himself as a captive to escape and not a patient to be cured, whether or not you, I, Mithrandir, and my guards believed otherwise.”

“You may ask him, if the question weighs on your mind,” said Boromir. “He is here now, and listening.” His hand still rested on Sméagol’s back- his was the light and wary, almost awe-struck touch of someone who has been favored with the attentions of a wild animal.

“Indeed I may ask,” said Thranduil. “Sméagol, what have you to say about the hospitality of the Elves?”

Sméagol sobbed. “Gollum! They was nice, very nice Elves but we was not a nice Sméagol and we ran away, now Sméagol is very sorry, gollum!”

“You need not apologize to him!” Boromir said. “Your situation was strange and difficult, and he understands it well enough. He is only making merry.”

“Indeed,” said Thranduil. “Although I am afraid the creature somewhat tempers my merriment with his manner. Calm, Sméagol! You cringe as if you expect the touch of the whip. Have my people ever dealt with you thus?”

“No, n-no,” said Sméagol. “Sméagol doesn’t like to be looked at.”

“Then you may depart,” said Aragorn.

“Yet a moment more,” said Thranduil. “I should like Sméagol to know I have forgiven and pardoned him before you take him away. He looks as if he fears meeting a Silvan blade if he strays from his minders, which he need not fear. I might mention the matter of a litter of orc-babes, but although he found them, he did not make the decision to send them to the Greenwood.”

“No, that matter is between you and I,” said Aragorn. “Sméagol is blameless in it, unless you choose to blame him for learning the same lesson of pity that has preserved his own life.”

“We must toast to him!” a laughing voice cried from the crowd. “May Sméagol live long, may his eyes be ever bright, may his grip never lose its iron, and may he lose neither the sharpness of his teeth nor the even sharper edge of his tongue, so long as he is under the protection of the house of Telcontar!”

“And may he eat heartily and hunt well,” another Elf chimed in, “so long as he hunts within the borders of Gondor!”

“May all this be true,” said Thranduil’s voice, “for so long as the Greenwood lives free from the yoke of Sauron, which shall be as long as it stands… and for so long as Sméagol and his deeds are held responsible to King Elessar, and not King Thranduil!”

Sméagol burst into bewildered tears.

“That is all I shall require,” Aragorn said, “come here, now.” He carried Sméagol back to his table and set him down. “Well!” he said. “I tried to warn you my guests may be raucous. I did not think it right to turn you away if you wished to attend regardless but I feared you did not realize what that might mean.”

“May we go home now?” Sméagol quavered.

Aragorn looked solemn. “If you wish it. I had hoped you would stay long enough to enjoy some part of the evening. No Elves will speak to you any longer, and dinner is about to be served. There is a fresh grayling for you.”

Sméagol nibbled his lower lip. It would seem like failure if he left now, though surely he could ask the fish to be brought to his room.

“The Elvenking did pardon you,” said Aragorn. “I did not make him do so- indeed I would not have the power to. He does not pardon easily, or without long thought and consideration. And you will not be brought into the public eye again. That was all I shall require of you, and you may sit here now, and enjoy the company of your own guests.”

“O very well,” said Sméagol.

“Excellent! Now, I must go and give King Thranduil his proper introduction. Yours was first, because I deemed it more important.” He walked off and vanished into the light.

Sméagol rubbed at his eyes. The political situation of Gondor was so far beyond him! “What was all of that about, Eardwulf?” he asked. “It sounded as if the Elves was being nice to Sméagol, but then it sounded as if they was making fun.”

“I cannot be certain but it struck me that the Wood-elves do not make a distinction between those things,” said Eardwulf. “Their talk is riddling, though not in the manner of riddling you enjoy, I fear.”

“Ach! We’re glad we fetched up with the Men instead, and the King did not send us back to Mirkwood.”

“I take that as high praise,” said Eardwulf. “I am glad you fetched up here and were not sent away, as well.”

Aragorn was still introducing Elves. Sméagol listened with half an ear until Eardwulf and Faelon stood up and faced to the West, saying nothing. That was the Standing Silence, which meant they would all get to eat soon.

As the Men sat down again Sméagol asked: “Isn’t Eardwulf from the horse-lands? We thought only the Gondor-Men had to do that.” 

“My father was of Rohan. My mother was of Gondor, and I was born here. But, as it happens, Rohan also lies somewhat to the west. Therefore I may participate in the ritual honestly.”

“Of course, of course. Did the Elfs stand? We didn’t look.” Really he was wondering if he was going to look like a bad sport for not standing up.

“There are no Elves to the west of me, so I did not see them,” said Faelon. “But their own home is to the West too.”

“Is it? We thought Mirkwood was northly. Greenwood, it’s the Greenwood now.”

“It is, but… I am not sure how to explain…”

He was not forced to, as someone came by then with plates of food for the three of them. Sméagol at first did not eat. He was painfully conscious of how disgusting he must look when he ate. But then Eardwulf and Faelon began to eat their food and Sméagol realized very quickly that no one makes pleasant noises when chewing, and no one looks elegant with one’s mouth stuffed full (particularly those who get their food trapped in wiry beards as Eardwulf immediately managed to do).

Also, he was hungry. Sméagol had missed his breakfast and his stomach was growling loud enough for anyone nearby to hear, which he could not help, and even the fact of his hunger seemed unpleasant and shameful. If he was going to be unpleasant whether he was hungry or fed, he may as well be fed. He just took small bites and chewed with his mouth closed- as well as he could. His nose was a little bit blocked up. Allergic to Elves, perhaps.

Aside from the excellent grayling, there were eggs and bits of meat, and it was all very nice- but then the Elves began to turn up.

“They claim you are Sméagol,” the first one said. “The face is like enough but the Sméagol I knew would never allow a comb upon his head! If the Men are treating you forcefully, signal so to me by blinking.”

Sméagol was fairly certain this was a joke but it was not one he found very amusing. “No, gollum, they are very nice, very kind and gentle Men, and do not even put ropes on us or drive us out into the sunlight, gollum.” In fact he had asked Faelon to comb his hair.

“Oho!” said the Elf. “Perhaps you are the one controlling the Men. But I see from their faces that they do not like this talk. And their hands are not even scarred by fangs.”

“It is easy to avoid being bitten by creatures you are not provoking to anger,” said Eardwulf.

“Naturally! A happy union this is! I shall trouble it no more.”

As he left, Sméagol remarked: “The King said no more Elves would speak to us. He cannot stop them, eh, can he? He is not the King of Elves, only of Men.”

“That is so,” said Eardwulf. “Although there is only so much freedom the Elves can have in his kingdom. Perhaps they will tire of this game and stop coming.”

The second Elf said: “Well! It is Sméagol, I hear; I have seen him before but I have not seen him with so much flesh on his bones.”

“We eats the scraps from everyone else’s dinners and they says it is not as expensive as it sounds, gollum,” Sméagol said. “We has a fresh fissh to ourselfs tonight because it is a special occasion, they tells us.”

“A special occasion indeed! Did our food not suit you so well?”

He dimly remembered rejecting the Elves’ food even though he was hungry, because they had handled it and left a noxious odor on everything. He was still troubled by their scent, but not so badly as before. The blocked-up nose did help a bit. “Sméagol was very ill before and could not help some of what he was doing, but now he is better and is very sorry, nice Elf, yes, we hopes we was not too much of a bother.” He pulled his food a little nearer to him, to show in the politest manner possible that the Elf was being a bit of a bother to him by making conversation when he preferred to eat.

“You were as much of a bother as anyone could manage at your size,” said the Elf, “and all who must deal with you were daily grateful that your Creator allowed you to grow no taller. Your apology is welcome, but I see that I am not! I shall seek pleasanter companions.”

The third Elf appeared when Faelon was cutting Sméagol’s portion of veal into pieces that were a little smaller.

“Sanity has not departed Gondor!” the Elf laughed. “Sméagol does not have his own knife.”

Eardwulf said nothing but tucked a steak-knife into Sméagol’s hand. Sméagol hesitated a moment before he realized what he was intended to do. He started clumsily trying to cut the meat.

“I see I was mistaken.” The Elf sounded merrier than ever. “He was bad enough with only the blades in his mouth. I shall depart somewhere safer!”

Sméagol set down the knife. He was hurting his wrist by messing about with it.

He was beginning to wonder if there was no one at this horrid party who was not an Elf, but the next guest was a noblewoman of Mannish kind. She had a paper fan that she was waving at her face as she peered at Sméagol. He thought she may be trying to wave the smell of him away.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” she said. “I have heard tell of you. You visit shops alongside Lord Boromir on occasion, do you not?”

“We does,” said Sméagol. “Yes, Sméagol goes about with his beautiful friend who is so kind to us. Why does she ask?”

“I would be so very honored to receive you some night when you are on your excursions,” she said. “My home is in the Fifth Circle.”

“O, is it? Perhaps the nice lady may tell Sméagol where to find it.”

She gave him directions and a brief description, and hinted that she had all the things Boromir liked, although how she knew what the Man liked was beyond Sméagol. He bade her a polite good-bye.

“But the Lord Boromir is very busy,” he said sweetly when she was out of earshot. “Sméagol goes visiting alone most nights. She will be jusst as happy to see him alone, eh?”

“Perhaps not,” said Faelon. “I am not so sure she was- that is, I-”

“We won’t visit,” said Sméagol. “Won’t even tell Lord Boromir about her, gollum! Peoples used to invite me over to get something they wanted from Gran. I went alone, of course. Ha, ha! They hated seeing my twitchy little face turn up by itself.”

Faelon looked a bit disturbed.

The next Elf was for Faelon. She was one of the most foresty Wood-Elves, a short and deeply freckled one that almost looked like a sapling herself. She appeared at Faelon’s elbow. “Well met!” she said warmly. “I have marked thee for thy kindness to Sméagol, who has ever tried the patience of my people; thou must have patience to rival the Eldar, and I like that very much. I may say thy face and form please me also. Wilt thou join me in a dance?”

“I am pleased by your words, milady,” said Faelon, blushing, “but the creature may have need of me…”

Sméagol made a rude noise and gave him a dismissive wave. He had by this time eaten most of what had been set before him and had slid down into a little heap in his chair. “Sméagol doesn’t need nothing,” he said. “He ought go and dance with the Elf, and then he can tell his little friends he has done it. They will be jealous!”

“Sméagol!” said Faelon. “I think I may be a little older than you think I am…”

“Sss, sss, no,” Sméagol slurred. “Ask her if she thinks you are old. She is three thousandses of years, or something like that."

"Older," the Elf laughed.

Eardwulf joined in mildly: “Do not fret yourself about your duty, Faelon, for I can attend Sméagol perfectly well, and there are others who could help me if I needed it. He shall want for nothing and is generous enough to release you to enjoy yourself.”

“Thy friends have done thee the good turn of taking away all of thy excuses,” said the Elf, now gently pulling Faelon to his feet. “Come with me, and see why the Elves of the Greenwood have their reputation for merriment!”

Faelon did not return. Sméagol kept nibbling at his food and sinking lower into the chair.

“I wonder if you and I were mistaken to nudge him into leaving with that uncanny maiden,” said Eardwulf. “We may never see him again.”

“She will tire of him,” said Sméagol, now eye level with the edge of the table, “like a shiny toy that a baby puts away. They are rather silly, these Elves.” He could no longer reach the food from this position and was wondering whether he wanted to bother sitting up.

A figure had appeared at his side, one taller and brighter than the other Elves, and with leaves woven in his hair. Sméagol flinched.

“Silly is not the kindest word you could choose, nor the wisest, but it is far from the rudest,” said the Elf, and from the sound of his voice, it was Thranduil himself. “Indeed there is a change in you. I confess it is not yet enough of a change that I would invite you to my own parties- but I doubt that upsets you very much.”

“We’re sorry if we bit him,” Sméagol said.

“You were never given the opportunity.”

“He said he was given the little orcses, how are they? Does he still have them?”

“Yes, although I do not tend them personally. When I last saw them, they were hale and hearty,” said Thranduil. He was holding a large goblet of wine, which he now began to swirl around in his hand. “They are rambunctious and grow quickly, and we do not yet know what will become of them when they are full-grown. But for the time being they appear to be happy, although the happiness of orcs is a murky thing. Does this knowledge please you?”

“O yes,” said Sméagol, beginning to weep. “They may be the last. They may be the only orcs to be free.”

“They may be,” said Thranduil, looking at him oddly. “It seems the change in you is deeper than I guessed. I have heard you have been asking to come to my realm and visit these orcs you are so taken with. Do you think you would be welcome, after you repaid our kindness with hatred, and departed in bloodshed?”

“No,” said Sméagol, “No, gollum, we didn’t invite ourselfs! We wouldn't invite ourself.”

“I told him he might go,” Eardwulf said tersely.

“You?” Thranduil asked with a searching look. “What authority did you have to make such a promise? I see you are entrusted with much, but I doubt you are in a position to treat with kings.”

“I am not, your Majesty. The creature was grieving the absence of the children he cared about, and I offered that he may one day see them again, for I have authority to see to his needs, and I believed my King would have authority to fulfill my promise if he deemed it right.”

Thranduil considered this for a long moment. Then he put the wineglass to his lips and drained all of it, in one continuous long drink. It took him some time. When he was done, he said (without the slightest sign of being out of breath): “If you plan to ask your King to approach me in the matter, wait until I have had a glass or two more.” He glided away.

“I do not want to go back,” said Sméagol.

“You would not need to enter his realm,” said Eardwulf. “Someone could bring the young orcs out into the wood to meet you. He would not deny you that.”

“It is such a long way!”

“You would not have to walk it.”

Sméagol sighed.

Some time later there was a heavy sound nearby, shaking Sméagol awake and making him notice he had been asleep. That was rude, to sleep at parties. Very rude. 

Boromir had sat down in Faelon’s empty chair. “I beg your pardon!” he said. “I have not asked leave to sit here. May I?”

“Does he think we would say no?” Sméagol answered, nonplussed. He rubbed his eyes and wondered whether anyone had found out that he'd been sleeping.

“I have been having such an interesting talk with the Elvenking,” said Boromir. “The Shadow lay heavily upon his people in much the same way as it did here in the City of the Tower. It seems the Elves of Mirkwood turned to merriment to mask the solemnity of their duty, rather than taking it as their role to be dour. I wish my father were well enough to speak with them. They would have much to learn from each other. My brother, at least, is profiting from the evening.”

“O! Is he here?”

“Yes, he is discussing trade possibilities. He has quite a head for figures, and for seeing opportunities for cooperation.”

Sméagol nodded bemusedly and pressed his fist to his mouth so that he would not yawn. He must not yawn. And belching was right out.

Boromir continued. He took no more notice of Sméagol’s lack of attention than if he had been speaking to a post, and he might as well have been. “The burden faced by Thranduil and Denethor may have been my own. It would have been my own if the world had gone on as it once did. And yet I think I never once expected the role of Ruling Steward to fall to me. I never believed in a future beyond the war, beyond Denethor’s rule. My brother did, and I see now tis he, in fact, who was the more sensible brother all along. For what does it profit a Man to never believe in success or betterment, and to be unable to know what to do with it when it arrives? And thus it is that Gondor’s fated king was named Hope!”

Sméagol reached for a juicy-looking scrap of meat on his plate, then hesitated with his hand in midair. He was quite full. Now, that was what he had never expected- a respite from hunger.

“But I have not even let you get a word in edgewise, my friend,” Boromir laughed. “You have made it at last to one of the King’s gatherings! What think you?”

“Very nice, yes,” said Sméagol. “They played a nice song about the River a bit ago.” That was the only song he had liked, but at least he had found that he did not hate music after all.

“Ah! That song,” said Boromir. “Faramir was found of it as a youth.” He did not say that he, himself, liked it. “But I see you are tiring. I myself find these events fatigue me more than they once did. Others are drifting away, it seems- you may as well whenever you wish. Yet I am glad you did not depart before I had an opportunity to speak with you. I would like to say as well that my men were pleased with your conduct in Barad-dur. There will be more work for you if you accept it.”

“Works, yes, yes.” He rubbed at his eyes. Even with them closed he could see a faint afterimage of the lights reflected on Boromir’s face. He looked every bit of the noble retiring hero. Sméagol looked like a bloated tick.

A soft, gentle voice spoke beside him. “You do not look like a bloated tick. You look like a very old hobbit who wants to sleep.”

It was Aragorn. Sméagol had not known he could read minds!

“I cannot,” said Aragorn. “Alas, it would be helpful, but it would also be more responsibility and care than I may wish, I suspect. But you, Sméagol, say more of what you think aloud than you realize. Especially when you are halfway asleep. Do you wish to return to your own bed? Or shall you join some of our Elven friends in the custom of sleeping underneath the table?”

“I had thought the Eldar were resistant to the effects of strong drink,” Boromir remarked.

“They are. They have brought very strong drink with them,” said Aragorn. “From Dale, I believe. I did not provide it. The party is over, Sméagol. You can go home now. Twill be no mark on you.”

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “Yes, I don’t want to stay any longer. I can’t keep my silly eyes open anymore.”

Eardwulf gently gathered him up into his arms.

“Farewell!” said Boromir. “I shall see you two days hence in the evening as usual. And for now I shall go and see how loose Thrandil’s lips have become. His talk intrigues me.”

“Be cautious,” said Aragorn. “He is like to your father in cunning, as well, and I do not think he is actually drunk. Sméagol, would you be so good at to bid farewell to the Queen on your way out? She promised she would speak to you again and would dislike to seem false.”

“We will, yes,” said Sméagol. “We says yes to everything these days.”

“I shall be cautious what I ask of you, then,” said Aragorn. “She is over here.”

Queen Evenstar was sitting with her friends at a different table now, and chatting comfortably with them in the Elvish language that was sometimes spoken in Gondor. Sméagol’s knowledge of it was limited to a few pertinent things like ‘bath’, ‘food’, ‘no’ and the like.

She looked up with bright eyes when she saw him. “Why, it is Sméagol! Hello, little one. Are you leaving so soon?”

“I’ll stay if she wishes it,” said Sméagol.

“Please, do not remain on my account. We may speak longer another time, perhaps. You may send me a letter any time you wish, as well, and then we may speak without needing to arrange meetings. Thank you for attending tonight. It is unjust to leave you out of our joy when you have done so much to bring it about. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight,” said Sméagol, who, unfortunately, was too sleepy to remember that she might not like him to touch her face. Her cheek was soft as mouse-fur. She touched his cheek in return. Her eyes were warm when she looked at him and a great deal warmer when she looked at Aragorn.

Outside, the cool breeze woke Sméagol a little. He found Aragorn still beside them. Aragorn’s quiet face had been touched by the Elf-queen’s eyes and the almost fanatical loyalty of Boromir. The Master had liked Aragorn, too.

Sméagol clenched his teeth tight so he would not speak without meaning to. He was thinking: Very well, he is a good Man, a real one; but I still don’t like to talk to him because I never know what he’s driving at!

“Are you well?” Eardwulf asked quietly.

“Yes,” said Sméagol. “More yesses from Sméagol. He is agreeable today.”

“So I see,” said Aragorn. “Tell me truly; did you enjoy yourself?”

“It’s truth he wants,” said Sméagol. “O we had a good enough time, lots of nice food. Yes, we did, and we made everyone else miserable just as we said we would. Lots of Elveses coming up to complain. We warned him and he asked us anyway.”

There was a strained silence. Sméagol rested his head on Eardwulf’s shoulder.

“I watched you most of the evening,” said Aragorn finally, “and when I could not watch you, Faramir watched you in my stead. We saw you seated at your table, with your head down, keeping your hands and your tongue entirely to yourself. I promise you, Sméagol, if anyone disliked your presence, that person is the one at fault and I may have to have words. Eardwulf, was anyone cruel to him?”

“No,” said Eardwulf. “Not by intent, at least. Some of the guests had joking words with him that he did not understand. Sméagol, they did not dislike you or resent you… I think they did not know what to make of you. If anything perhaps they were a trifle annoyed that you behave so well for us and would not for them.”

Aragorn sighed. “I had wished that you and the Greenwood Elves would not attend the same party… but some good came of it. If there was any fear that they would desire any recompense from Sméagol’s past deeds I think they have been cured of that wish by the sight of him now. What of you, Eardwulf? I sent a Sylvan hound-trainer to speak to you but I am afraid he was waylaid by the wine. I did not see him at your table, although I did see that noblewoman who watches Lord Boromir so closely…”

“Yes,” said Eardwulf. “I am afraid she is seeking out his favorites.”

Sméagol drifted off to sleep then. He had taken no wine himself- even back in the River-days wine had tended to stop up his nose and give him a headache. But he had been around it and smelling it all evening and had half convinced himself he was tipsy as well as overfed.

He half-woke in his own bed, to voices by his window. “When I speak to him frankly, he sees lies and half-truths. When I make a joke he takes it as the soberest truth and his hackles rise. What am I saying amiss? What makes him distrust me so?”

“He is slow to change an impression,” said Eardwulf. “Tis not impossible. He liked me very little when first we met. But I do not think he hates you, my King. He does not allow anyone he dislikes to touch him. If he hated you, or feared you, he would have flickered away into the crowd when you stooped to pick him up.”

“Or used his teeth.”

“Perhaps. I have taught him that anyone who touches him against his will has earned his teeth.”

“I wish it was a lesson he did not need to learn.”

“I beg your pardon for speaking but I think we may be heard where we are. He often sleeps in fits.”

Aragorn laughed bitterly. “I am found out. I had hoped he may believe my earnestness if he overheard it and thought he had discovered it on his own. Let us depart- I must return to my own gathering…”

Their footsteps departed.

He had given Sméagol a present for Yule, a nice rock with a nice note.

Sméagol pulled his blanket over his head. He had felt the stab of guilt in his chest too often. He was tired. So he would just let Aragorn walk away. Just as he had let Bilbo Baggins, and Frodo Baggins, and Sam Gamgee, and all of his own family walk away after he had been nasty to them, and none of them would ever, ever come back.

He ran out the window. Strider was not called Strider for the fun of it- Eardwulf was having trouble keeping pace with him, and Sméagol had to sprint and jump to catch up.

He grabbed hold of Aragorn’s trousers. He was dressed very finely- Sméagol had not really taken notice of it before. Aragorn wore a shining necklace and had an Elvish scent to his clothes, but not like the Wood-elves. Aragorn had his own Elves that he had married into, and he was wearing their things, Sméagol thought, as long ago people had come into Gran’s gatherings with their other families’ things, to show that their kin mattered too.

“What is it?” Eardwulf asked.

“I did listen,” said Sméagol. “I’m sorry. Not for listening, not for that, he was standing just outside our window after all. I’m sorry I didn’t trust him. It is awful to work very hard and not be trusted- it is horrible- it is cruel. I don’t want to be cruel any longer.”

“Then you are not!” said Aragorn. “Being cruel requires that you choose to be so.”

“I thought- I thought- gollum, gollum! I thought it might all be a misstake and he’d say he doesn’t really want us.”

“I do not make mistakes of that nature,” said Aragorn. “I do want you. I was pleased to have you at my party and I will be pleased if you attend another. Have I made things a little better?”

Sméagol nodded and whimpered.

“There! That is settled,” said Aragorn. “I am not angry with you. I know well why you do not trust Men, for not only orcs use thumb-screws, and too many people use their words cheaply for me to expect you will believe mine on first hearing. I ought not have been so impatient. I think I ought to apologize as well. Good night, Sméagol.”

“Good night.”

He went back inside and listened to the footsteps fading away into the distance.

I did it, he thought. I was different in time, and didn't wait for later on when it didn’t matter anymore. He felt strange. 

Sméagol was still not hungry when he woke up, although when he found that food had been left for him he managed to eat most of it anyway. Then he dragged himself over to the writing-table for a leisurely session of trying to remember some of the songs he had heard at the party and write them down. They must be written down somewhere already, of course, so it did not matter. Sméagol was beginning to think he might be writing for no real reason or purpose, and only because it pleased him in some way he could not name.

Faelon stumbled in blinking, with his hair mussed.

“O, good evening,” said Sméagol. “Where is Eardwulf?”

“In bed, I suspect,” said Faelon. “Tis morning.”

By this time, Sméagol couldn’t breathe through his nose or smell anything. “It is?” He squinted at the shutters of his window. Pale light was filtering through the edges. “Ach! What are we going to do in the daytime?”

“Go back to sleep, perhaps,” said Faelon, with a look of tired longing. “I’ve brought your bath- the tub is upstairs.”

Sméagol took a closer look at him. “Has he not had any sleeps?”

“Not even one.”

Sméagol stared at him. “How many Elfs did he dance with?”

Faelon sat down rather heavily beside him, and leaned in close, putting his head near Sméagol’s in very much the way one puts one’s head close to a dog or cat to tell it a secret.

“I couldn’t tell them apart,” he whispered. “I don't know how many there were."

“They are funny little urchins, the forest-Elves,” said Sméagol. They were wild and a bit silly- they were as different from the Queen and her type as Sméagol’s family had been from the Shire-hobbits.

Sméagol may be a hobbit after all, he thought. Sméagol is comparing himself to Elves. Sméagol is very tired.

Faelon looked very tired. Sméagol turned away from him and continued quietly writing. As he had thought might happen, he soon heard sleep-breathing from the young Man. He'd dozed off where he sat.

The sound of his breathing brought Frodo’s sleeping face to mind, unbidden, unexpected and unguarded-against. Sméagol found that his own face was wet. Along with all of the other new tricks he’d learned, like making nice to Elves, he had picked up the art of weeping silently somewhere along the way.

He shook his head at himself and went upstairs to take his bath. He had to be presentable for the next fool thing the Men wanted him to do.

Chapter Text

The sound, though muffled and distant, was plainly a cry for help. Sméagol paused mid-step, with his head alert and ears pricked, as a cat will pause in its stride to hearken to the bark of a dog, and in much the same manner, acting on reflex, he put his head back down and hurried away from the sound at a trot. 

A moment later he had an automatic thought: A helpless little lost thing? Won’t be missed? Is it soft? He was peckish.

This paused him again. The foul impulse from his past life was not worthy of entertaining, but it had gotten his attention: the cry signified someone in trouble, a child, from the sound of it.

Sméagol began to fidget with a knot in his hair. Someone ought to do something, and no one else was around. Therefore it was Sméagol who ought to do something. He might at least start by finding out who was making that noise and why.

The cry was coming from an old well, which Sméagol had investigated before, only to find out that it was dry and therefore not very useful to his purposes. There was a sign on it marked 'danger', with a simple drawing of a person falling to warn those who could not read. Sméagol eyed this sign now, a little dubiously, because the call was coming again and it was plainly coming from inside the well. 

It was raining- raining curtains and buckets. Sméagol enjoyed the rain a great deal, but Men as a rule did not. He fiddled with a frayed bit of his sleeve as he considered the ‘danger’ sign and the sheeting rain. What would possess a Man- or a child of Man- to enter the old well? “Hello?” he ventured. 

“Help!”

“Help, help with what?”

“Help!”

“With what?” Sméagol asked, louder.

“Help!”

He sighed to himself and hoisted his lean body onto the edge of the well. “Hello?”

There was no answer. Sméagol lowered himself into the well with much grumbling. Inside were plentiful handholds, but they were slippery. His progress was slow and rough.

“It is a long way to go for a nassty little joke,” he muttered, “a very long way, so I suppose it is not a joke. But if it is- gollum! Might be his last joke.” 

Towards the bottom the sound of crying floated up to him, echoing all around the round chamber of the well. “Hello?” Sméagol called again. “Someone’s coming- someone’s coming, gollum, there is no need to cry, none at all!”

At the end of his climb he found that the rain had begun to re-fill the well. About a hand’s-length of water stood in the bottom, frigid water. In the water was a small boy, whimpering and shaking. He looked Sméagol in the eye, because Sméagol’s eyes shone in the dark; all he could see, no doubt, was that pair of eyes, floating points of light attached to something invisible that wheezed in the dark and scrabbled on the stones of the well. Sméagol could see clearly, even better than he could see up above with the covered flickering torchlights lining the King’s streets. The boy was muddy and wretched. One of his legs was bent badly.

“Hello, hello! Whatever is he down here for? Not a nice place,” Sméagol said. He stepped down into the water, in order to rest his limbs for a moment. The child jerked back from his closeness, but he did answer.

“I, I fell in.”

“You fell in, eh? Can’t get back out again?” 

“N-no.”

There was no way out of the well but to climb back up the wall. Sméagol could do so easily, if not happily. The child plainly could not have done it even with two sound legs.

The boy was flattened against the far wall of the well, as far away from Sméagol as he could get, which under the circumstances was mere inches.

“Are you going to eat me?”

“No.” Sméagol’s back was protesting from making the climb down here, and he thought perhaps he would leave, and tell a guard what had happened, and consider his job done. After all, the boy did not want him here. 

Water dripped onto his head. Rain was coming in steadily from above, which meant the well would continue to fill, and the boy might drown before a guard could return to help him- even if a guard could help. Sméagol knew from the feel of the climb and the closeness of the walls all around him that a grown Man could never fit inside the well in order to retrieve the little boy, even if that Man was as clever a climber as Sméagol, which was not likely. It did not occur to him to lower down a rope, because Sméagol himself never used ropes in that manner; if he had thought of it he would have dismissed it in any case because the boy did not look strong enough to hold onto a rope or calm enough to tie it securely about himself. 

The boy was large enough to give Sméagol a bit of a drubbing, though, if hauled bodily up the well without his say-so. And perhaps he would shake himself loose and get himself killed, in the process. 

“Sss, sss,” said Sméagol. “I can bring you out of here nice and quick, just as quick as I got in, if you let me. Yes, if you let me.”

“You can take me home?”

“Of course we can! Climb onto our back, and we will take you back up.”

“But what if you eat me on the way up?”

Sméagol flipped one hand in an involuntary gesture, whether of frustration or supplication he did not know. It made a splash in the rising water. “If I wanted to eat you,” he said, “I would eat you down here, at the bottom of the well, where no one would ever know or find your boneses, gollum! We wouldn’t carry him out unless we wanted him alive at the top, now, would we? Now climb on, unless he’d like to drown!”

The boy finally decided the drowning was more certain and more terrifying than the prospect of Sméagol’s teeth- which he could not see in the dark, after all; perhaps he would have had a different opinion if he had seen them. It took some jostling and wrangling to get the boy situated on Sméagol’s shoulders with his arms wrapped around his neck, and by the time it was done the water was deep enough to submerge an arm up to the elbow.

“I can’t hold on,” the child said.

“I cannot hold you and climb both,” said Sméagol, and, wincing, he tried to remember how he had carried bodies when he climbed- before. He had often found prey in a slightly inconvenient place and taken his kill off somewhere safer to eat it. In pieces, he recalled, unless it was small enough to tuck under an arm, and he nearly gagged. 

Enough memories, they would not help. He was wearing a belt to carry pouches of things he found. The boy wouldn’t fit into it, but he used this to tie the child to him.

“You must still hold on,” he said, and began to climb. The weight of the boy pulled dreadfully at his neck and his shoulders. The trek jarred the broken leg and the boy began to weep and wail. His voice echoed on the stones and came again and again, from every directions. A crowd of voices.

The voices I stopped. That was foolish, but he could not shake the thought. Sméagol could do nothing about it now, either to ease the child’s pain or simply make the crying stop.

Halfway up he paused to get his breath. His fingers were skinned from the rough rock. His shoulders pulled and throbbed with the extra weight, it was like being back on the rack. The boy’s arms around his neck were choking, throttling, and the belt tied around the both of them cut into his belly.  The crying, at least, had softened. 

Even if Sméagol were inclined to do something wicked now, and drop his burden, he could not untie the belt without letting go of the wall and falling to his death. He thought of the Precious, as had been his motivating habit, but it was gone now, and if it had not been, carrying a hurt child out of a well would not have helped him to get hold of it. He thought of Frodo instead. Supposing he ever saw Frodo again; how would he explain himself if he left the job half-finished? Frodo would surely be disappointed in him if he failed to rescue the boy. Worse than disappointed. What if Frodo beat him? He had never done so before, but suppose Sméagol deserved it very much? Frodo was just. He had carried a sword, and he had said he would use it if pressed. He would surely beat Sméagol if it were the right thing to do. The utter devastation of a deserved beating from a just master! It was sharper and fresher than his own fear of falling off the wall and breaking his neck, a fear that by now had faded and gone numb.

Using this horrid thought- and others like it- like a skilled orc-driver would use a whip, Sméagol kept himself climbing up the wall. He realized after some time that the boy was sobbing quietly into his shoulder. Surely no matter how miserable Sméagol was- and he was very miserable- the boy was moreso. Sméagol found it difficult to truly care about this, because his own pain was distracting and the boy hadn’t been very nice to him, but he might pretend to care. The Men had persuaded him that that sort of lie was alright because it helped others.

“It’s very nasty down here, isn’t it?” Sméagol said sympathetically. “And his poor leg must hurt dreadfully. It was bent.”

“How can- how can you see?”

“Our bright eyes. They are nice in the dark, so clever and sharp! But in the light I cannot see at all and my eyes burn like coals. I want to put them out, gollum, take them out! But the night always comes again and then it is better. And then we are glad we kept our eyes, so that we might see, ha-ha!” 

The boy did not laugh. Sméagol decided to change the subject. “What’s his name? What’s your name?”

“G-Gasson.”

“O that’s a shame,” Sméagol said, with gentle commiseration. “They called us Gollum, before.”

Gasson did not ask why they had called him that.

“But,” said Sméagol, “now we have our own nice name back. The King said so. And if Gasson wishes it, the King might give him a new name!” He took hold of a brick that, in his haste, he did not check properly before pulling on- it came loose and Sméagol almost fell. He grabbed swiftly at the wall, jamming his finger. Gasson screamed at the jolt, going into fresh sobs. 

Sméagol indulged in a little weeping himself, but he kept climbing. 

It seemed too good to be true when he reached the night air. “And we are out!” he cried, crouching on the pavement, sniffing the breeze and trying to believe those were really the stars up above. He had never been so happy to see them before. 

Gasson’s weight now sat on his back. Sméagol could breathe better this way, but the small of his back hurt dreadfully. His hands had gone numb, after all of the scrabbling at the rocks with unaccustomed weight to hold. Sméagol glanced at them to see what he was in for once the numbness was gone. He flinched at the sight and looked away. “We are out,” he announced again, as Gasson had not moved.

“Can you take me home?” Gasson whimpered.

“Why, I do not know where you live! Make haste, make haste, untie yourself and-“

“But I can’t walk! I can’t walk!”

Sméagol felt a sick sinking inside. “O, of course not,” he said. “Yes. Yes, Sméagol had forgotten, we begs his pardon. And since he cannot walk, we must take him off home, yes, like a sswaybacked old pony.” He was doing his best to sound cheerful. His shoulders trembled. He thought he might fall down like a pancake. “Of course we will. Which way is it, eh?”

“I don’t know. I’m lost.”

“Then-“ Sméagol nipped at his own tongue. He had wanted very much to say Then how am I meant to take you home? “A guard, a guard! We’ll ask the way!” And the guard would no doubt take the little boy away at once. The problem was solved. He only had to move twenty more feet or so.

“But I’ll get in trouble,” Gasson cried. 

Sméagol was now already plodding towards where he knew the nearest guard post to be (he had learned their positions quite well) and was not changing his course. “In trouble? O yes, I suppose he will. You have been charging off poking about old wells and falling in and hurting yourself. That is naughty! It’s very dangerous! There is nothing for it now, of course. Nothing at all. They will have to find out anyway, because your leg will need a healer! It’s no good crying about it. That is how it must be. And you ought to get in trouble because you have caused troubles for yourself, and for Sméagol, and for your parentses.”

The guard post was some way away yet, but there were people up ahead, rushing around and looking behind things and under carts and into crates, even though opening the crates let in the rain and ruined whatever was inside. Lanterns flashed. One of these flashes blinded Sméagol, who froze in place, wincing and squinting, and wondering if he should take the expediency of approaching one of these people, though he didn’t know who they were or what they were about. The people saw him first and ran for him, crying out. They were calling for Gasson. Aha!

“See, they have been out in the rain looking for you because you wandered off,” said Sméagol, as the people approached. “That is naughty, to wander off and make them search! But they will take you home now.” 

A woman was running towards them. She screamed, and grabbed hold of Gasson, pulling hard- he was still tied to Sméagol and the belt stopped him. It cut sharply into Sméagol’s belly so that his breath was quite taken away and he could not tell the woman the boy was tied on, and she was only hurting the both of them by yanking that way- Gasson was shrieking all over again.

Then she had been firmly pushed aside- there was another woman with a thin line of a mouth, and a knife in her hand. Now Sméagol was the one who shrieked, but she only cut the belt, freeing Gasson to be taken up by the first woman. Sméagol dashed off. He made it a distance down the sidewalk before he stumbled and fell to his hands and knees- but this did not slow his progress very much. He was accustomed to crawling.

He made it down a side street and around the side of the block. The cobblestones were not nice to his hands, but they did not show his tracks, especially when everything was wet and no signs of damp feet could be seen on dry stone. He was not followed. 

He limped his way home, licking his sore hands, which tasted of blood, as they had so many times before. 

A baby was crying. Sméagol cursed under his breath. The sound was coming from the refuse heap next to the one he had been digging in. 

The discovery of Minas Tirith’s communal rubbish pit had been a great day for him, but now he thought he had perhaps been better off not finding it. “I suppose now I’ve heard it I must do something,” he grumbled. “Sméagol always finds these things, and he is the last person who ought to be meddling with them.” Yet no one else was there. He ran his fingers through his thin hair in what- if he only knew it- was a starkly hobbitish-looking gesture, and turned towards the noise with a sigh. 

The baby turned out to be very small, thin and sickly and snot-encrusted, and a color too sallow to be healthy in Men. At least its smallness made it possible for Sméagol to hold it in one arm, cradled firmly to his chest while he used his other arm to help him pick his way along.

He tried to make soothing noises, but they had no effect. Sméagol’s body was too cool to warm the infant, his bony chest too hard to comfort one, and goodness knows how his attempt at soothing noises sounded to its little ears. He had no way to feed it or clean it or doctor any hurts it might have. The baby was going to keep crying. “You have enough reason to cry, eh?” 

He made for the nearest guards, trying not to think of what his old self would have done if he had found an abandoned baby. He must be getting better, at least; he had not had the thought even once that the baby would be edible. He had only thought about how he would have once considered it edible. That was progress. 

It was not a long or strenuous walk to the guard post at least. “You! Over there,” Sméagol cried. The baby had stopped making any noise aside from difficult breathing. He didn’t think that was a good sign.

The guard turned to look at him in surprise. The Man was a stranger, and had never seen Sméagol before. “I found this,” said Sméagol, “left alone, all alone, it is a baby, a child of Men, and- it was alive when I found it- I think it still is. Take it, quickly!”

The guard hesitated in confusion.

“You will have time to gawk at Sméagol later,” he said, in a voice on the edge of patience. “He lives here; but the baby may not any longer if you do not get up and help!” 

Perhaps the guard could not make sense of his squeaking speech. Fortunately the baby made one last whining noise and that got the Man’s attention. He took it from Sméagol with more force than was needed. And surely he would know what to do after that- he would know better than Sméagol, at least- hopefully he did. Sméagol took his chance to escape when the guard was looking in confusion at the infant in his arms. This was not the time for an awkward misunderstanding. 

That had all seemed too easy- he didn’t even have to go out of his way very much, just cut short his explorations. So he was not surprised when someone from the guards came by later to question him. 

They did not suspect him of stealing the baby, it had been too plainly neglected to look freshly carried off, Sméagol supposed, and it also had not been reported missing. The guards only wanted to know if Sméagol had seen who had left it or found any trace. He had not.

“What will happen to it?” he asked.

“She took no grievous hurt, and will live. She will go to the foundling home.”

“No nice grandmother with lots of wealth and a nice big smial to take her in,” he said to himself.

“The foundling home is well provided for- the King and Queen have taken great care to see that this is so.” 

“O, that is nice, I suppose.” But the whole thing seemed rather sad, and when he found another several months later, it seemed sad then too.

This time he surprised the mother in the act. She wasn’t leaving her baby in a rubbish heap, but on the doorstep of a house; Sméagol was passing by and nearly tripped her. “Ach!” he said, and nearly told her to look where she was going, but it was dark, and he had the advantage of her. “Silly Sméagol,” he said instead, but with his irritation poorly concealed. “Not watching. A warmish night, isn’t it, eh?”

That was when he saw the baby in her arms. It was watching him, goggling in the way babies do when confused, which they often are, having very little frame of reference for anything. Sméagol didn’t like being goggled at even by a baby. He pulled up his collar and ducked his head. Then he heard the mother say “Hush! They may hear!”

His curiosity drew him to follow her out into the middle of the street, where she stood barefoot. Men liked to wear shoes. Her cut and bloodied feet showed why that was. She showed no sign of pain, oddly. Sméagol, never a bastion of empathy, was wincing at the state of her poor little feets, they was that cut up and bruised, and she seemed not to notice. She stared at him with vacant dark eyes. “What are you? What do you want?”

“I am Sméagol,” he said, “and I want nothing, only out and about. We was taking a letter. What’s she doing about?”

“I’m…” She stared off into the distance for a moment or so. “You’re Sméagol. The Ring-bearer’s guide. Will you tell anyone you saw me?”

“Tell anyone! Will we tell? Ought we to? Who would we tell? Whom,” he corrected under his breath, “whom would we tell. That was in the grammar-book.”

“What is the nicest house here?”

“Sméagol can’t tell, he doesn’t live in a house. He has a cellar.” The small cabin that sat atop the cellar was merely an appendage. 

The baby made a little complaining sound and grabbed at her dress, which was worn and filthy. Sméagol was only just now noticing that people in Gondor usually wore much better. The woman looked down at the baby, and held it out a little farther from her body, which made it whine a little louder. “Sméagol,” she said again, thoughtfully, wonderingly; no one had ever said his name that way. “I cannot feed the child, Sméagol.”

“That’s a shame. There is a foundling home-“

“I cannot take him. No one must know I have him.”

“She may take him! They do not watch, they do not bear tales.”

She was crouching to his eye level. “The Valar sent me a guide,” she breathed. There was something about this that was fundamentally incorrect, Sméagol thought, and it was getting worse. “Please. Bring him to the home,” she urged. “Bring him in secret. In the dark.” Her face was impassive but tears ran down it. The baby waved its little arms and fussed. 

Sméagol looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see someone standing there laughing at what was plainly a joke. “But…” He looked down at the baby, which was fat and healthy, and wrapped in cloth that was worn and tattered but clean. “No, no, not us- that is silly,” he chided. 

“You must. That is why you are here.”

“I don’t-“ He stopped. What if that was why he was here? He didn’t usually take this route home. The Valar she had spoken of- they were mysterious, and big, and often seemed to be playing jokes on Sméagol. He shook himself. “No! You mustn’t give me- what if I eat him?”

“You must take him!” she cried. “Take him away, take him now!”

And Sméagol discovered he did not want to know what would happen if he didn’t, so much so that in the next moment he was cradling the tiny warm little thing in the crook of his arm, by his chest. The woman adjusted his grip, making sure he was supporting the child’s head. He in fact had already known he must do so. 

Wherever did I learn it? he wondered. Perhaps from long, long ago days having tiny cousins and second and third cousins handed to him, although even back then it had been foolish to trust him with anything so fragile. And soft. And warm.

“What’s his name?” Sméagol asked. The child had a healthy, milky scent, despite the rags. Was she really unable to feed him?

“He has no name.” 

“He needs a name.”

“I can give him none.” The woman stood back and looked at Sméagol, right in his eyes. Even people who knew Sméagol well did not look at him the way she did, meeting his eyes that way. His eyes were too bright and strange to meet without flinching. But she managed it as if she saw nothing out of the ordinary. She nodded, and turned to sprint away, faster than he had ever seen a Man run- she tripped and fell, so careless was her flight; it was a bad fall, facedown, but she pushed herself up and was running again like a mad thing before he could do anything about it. He went to the cobblestones where she had fallen and nosed at them. He scented blood. 

“Why can’t she keep you?” he mused. “What has she given you up for?”

The baby was grousing and wriggling. “Ach,” said Sméagol. “We begs his pardon, we aren’t taking him all the way to the foundling home, if we tries we’ll jusst drop him on his poor little head, or something nasty like that.” 

The baby responded with a sudden, distraught yell.

“Sss! No, no, I won’t leave you in a puddle, or a ditch, nothing like that, no! I only meant I will take you so far as a guard, and he will take you the rest of the way, and you’ll like him better- he will be warm! Hush, now, he mustn’t cry. He…” Sméagol sighed, patted the child’s back a time or two to no effect, and gave up. There was nothing in him that would give a baby any comfort. He had given all of it up long ago, for a cold bit of metal. 
If someone had turned up just then and offered the Precious in exchange for the child he’d been entrusted with-

Sméagol sucked in air through his teeth. “It is good that it’s gone,” he muttered, “o! I would take it!” And not only because the baby was screaming in his ear, although he didn’t much care for the sensation. 

He made his way to the nearest guard post as quickly as he could. He had an awful headache by the time he got there, but at least the sound preceded him and the guards were prepared for what he was coming to give them.

“A nice night for swimming, isn’t it?” Sméagol said affably. He had just been swimming himself. Now he was resting on a rock, comfortably full of fish and watching the wildlife in the indulgent manner of a sated predator who condescends to let smaller creatures pass by alive; and one of the passing creatures tonight happened to be a woman.

She was wading into the River.  The River had such attraction for Sméagol that he saw nothing odd in wading at midnight. She was fully clothed. Sméagol also swam with his clothes on when the mood took him. The only thing he noticed was that she had not answered his pleasantry. Perhaps she had not heard him. He raised his voice a little.

“A lovely night for swimming!”

She said nothing. She was up to her waist now. 

“But we are talking to ourselfs, my precious,” he continued. “She is not listening at all!” 

Indeed it seemed not.

“River stays nice and clean,” Sméagol said. “It is nicer than is usual, by Man-places. They puts their nasty rubbish elsewhere and the river is still good for drinking, and swimming, and fissh is tasty and fat and hasn’t been eating nasty things. The King is wise!” Actually a large part of that must have been Denethor’s doing, because the River had no signs of having been fouled before Aragorn’s still-new reign. In fact Denethor must have been a fairly good ruler himself, or his city would have been much nastier overall and Aragorn would have had a lot longer to go to fix it. But Sméagol disliked Denethor, so he would not compliment him. Aragorn still deserved the credit for keeping the River clean- he could have destroyed it by now if he’d had a mind.

Sméagol frowned a little. He had had the idle thought that he might get a gentle scolding for coming home wet and muddy and smelling of fish; he recalled now that he was seen as rather individual for turning up in such a state in the small hours of the morning. Men were not often found doing things Sméagol liked to do, let alone at the time and in the manner he did them. “Men do not swim in the dark. It is too cold for Men. What’s she doing?”

She was up to her shoulders.

“Men doesn’t swim with clotheses on either.” By now he did not expect an answer. “There she goes- ach!”

The woman’s head had gone under the water. Sméagol leaned forward, staring. She did not resurface. She’d gone out where the water was deep and the current strong. 

Then she bobbed back up, crying out and bobbing back down again. When she bobbed up a second time he heard a distinct “Help me!”

“Not us,” Sméagol whined. But no one else was anywhere around. He growled and slipped into the water. 

The woman flailed and tried to fight him off when he came up to her.

“You asked!” he spat. “You asked for help! I’ll let you drown if you wish it!”

“No!” she gulped. “Help me, please!”

The woman was larger than he and weighed down by a dress and so stupid. And he could not swim without his hands any more than he could walk without them. In desperation he dragged her along by taking her arm in his teeth some way, in order to use all his limbs for swimming. He bit a little harder than he really needed to because she kept flailing and hitting him and he was finding it tiresome.

There was a dreadful moment when he thought he would have to let her go or else die with her (and he had a dreadful suspicion she would grab his ankle on her way down, unless he bit her a little more decisively)- but then they came through it. At last they were on the bank. They both coughed and spat. Sméagol had not been foolish enough to inhale water for many, many long years, and found the sensation somehow offensive.

“Thank you,” the woman gasped finally.

Sméagol was vomiting water and did not reply.

“I wanted to die,” the woman said.

Sméagol gasped in confusion and choked on his gasp, which kept him from swearing, which was likely for the best.

“I wanted to die,” she repeated, and wiped her wet face with her wet sleeve. “And yet when the water took me- I was frightened. I wanted to live. If not for you, I…” Sobs shook her. 

Sméagol, who in years past had lied, cheated, groveled, blasphemed, betrayed, killed, and defiled the dead in order that he may live a few hours yet on top of a life that had spanned centuries already, looked at her as if she was an incomprehensible thing from a world outside of his own. “Why did she want to die?”

She leaned in close and put her arms around him. He did not want her closeness. He tensed. She spoke in his ear; what she said was only for his hearing and not to be repeated. 

When he heard what she had to say his jaw tightened. 

The woman was not looking at him now, she had let go of him and was hiding her face, which was for the best; she would have seen him suddenly smile in secret amusement, which was not an appropriate response to her admission whatsoever. He shook his head at himself and gave a helpless shrug. “It is not Sméagol’s business! No. What can I say about it, when I have done worse, much worse, and the King let me live?” 

“There is nothing worse,” she said in a shaking voice.

“O there is,” Sméagol told her, almost glib. “Much. It is better for you to live. And now we’ll lead you back to town, yes, we will.” He would take her to a guard, so she wouldn’t decide to die again once he looked away. He had heard that Denethor had once tried to take poison after setting himself on fire had not worked.   

She thanked him and blessed him and cried some more. He eyed the tear in her sleeve where he had bitten her. He had felt his teeth go through the skin and she wouldn’t like him so much anymore when she wasn’t numb from cold, but that would come later. And besides, there was her confession; perhaps no one ought to die, but perhaps some people could stand to be bitten. Just perhaps. 

He took her to the city gate, where she was taken in by city guards and Sméagol gratefully slipped away. He didn’t think the guards had even seen him. That was best; he had promised to keep the woman’s secret and he could keep it completely if no one knew he had saved her. It would be entirely her choice whether anyone ever even knew she had tried to kill herself, let alone her reasons.

There was the matter of his rather distinctive bite-mark on her arm. Ah, well. She could explain that however she wished to.

He had hired a horse and cart to take him to the outer gate (well, he had asked someone to use his money to hire one), and to wait for him there and take him back. What a grand night not to have to walk home! He was near fainting with tiredness.

“Hast thou been trying to drown thyself?” the driver asked, eyeing some weeds stuck in Sméagol’s hair.

“Maybe,” said Sméagol. “He’ll hand us that blanket, won’t he. Thanks ye, love.” He felt the cold more than he used to. He wrapped himself in the blanket. It seemed for a moment that he was forgetting something, some reason why he could not rest.

The Precious! He still thought of it sometimes, without warning, and he had just been thinking he had to go and look for it! I do not, he thought, and though he wanted it still, he was glad not to have to go look for it! Instead he could sleep.

He slept right away, on the way back home. It seemed like an incredible luxury.

Someone was coming. Sméagol just happened to see the approaching figure because he was outside rooting in the grass by his window. It was Boromir- Sméagol dashed inside, washing off the dirt and the grass stains as well as he could, then scurrying up the stairs.

Tarador was his guard this night- not a very friendly sort, but he had all of his limbs and was young, so Sméagol did not feel bad for trying to order him about. He might not listen, that was the trouble. “Ssss! Ssss,” he said. “Quickly! Go and get- I want- what is it- ssss! What’s it called?”

“Surely I know not!” said Tarador.

“It’s the pot full of hot water and it sstinks. It has leafs in it. Ssss- and it has a spout-“

Tarador’s eyebrows rose. “Tea? Thou art asking me to fetch thee a tea service?”

Sméagol slapped the floor with one hand. “It’s not for me! It is for the Lord Boromir. Look- there he comes! And we must be hospitable!”

“Indeed! Tis the Lord Boromir. I had not known,” said Tarador. He stood in a respectful attitude, which meant he was going to stand there and salute like a blithering idiot, and not be useful by fetching tea. “Why dost thou need guarding when thine eyes see everything from here to the Tower?”

“The same reason they will not let us have a kitchen of our own, I suppose,” said Sméagol. “I should be able to do these things for myself if no one will do them for me!” He had not the faintest idea how to make tea, but he could learn.

“Peace! I have never known the Lord Boromir to demand tea. He is a man of valor, and drinks ale.”

“Yes but he is missing his friends who are hobbitses, and we haven’t any ale, either, do we? And-“ Sméagol broke off, fuming. He saw clearly what he meant to say, and he knew whole-heartedly that he was quite correct, but putting it into words was another matter. “If there won’t be tea, we musst have a bit for him to eat,” he said, thinking that surely Tarador would understand that!

“Thou dost worry about the oddest things! I do not believe the Captain-General of Gondor is allowed to go hungry in his own city.”

“It doesn’t matter if he’s hungry!” Sméagol’s voice squeaked and cracked with frustration. “What does Men do when they visits? Sits around and stares at each other?”

Boromir had come into earshot. “Hail, Tarador! You may be at ease. What is the trouble?”

“No trouble, my Lord,” said Tarador with a respectful incline of his head. “The creature worries for your comfort.”

“Ah! Do not worry so, Sméagol, I am quite comfortable and in want of nothing. I would sit and speak to you a moment if you would.”

“I will, I will! Come in,” said Sméagol, not deigning to look at Tarador, who had always been useless. He led Boromir to the best seat, and hopped up onto the couch across from him. “It is a pleasure to see him, it is, an honor,” he said. “But he is busy, he would not come for no reason. What is it?”

“You are as astute as ever,” said Boromir, taking a seat. “Indeed I rarely have the luxury of visiting merely to enjoy your company- I have come on business of a sort. I have heard good tales of your doings in the city. Why did you never tell me of the child Gasson whom you pulled from the well?”

“Sméagol forgot!” he laughed. “He does not remember now!” He had the oddest feeling that he preferred to forget about it.

“Is that so! Then I may advise you. I confess that in the heat of battle or in some other such crisis I have also done things I do not recall now, or have done things that I did not know were seen. So I too have been thanked for deeds I did not remember. It is best to be polite, accept the gratitude, and not confess your lack of memory. For of course, you mean no insult by it. Your life has been full of many deeds and much action, and for you, perhaps you were only doing what was natural. But the person you helped was impacted greatly and would feel hurt to be forgotten.”

“Yes, of course, of course. We will just say ‘you’re welcome’ and that is all that is needed. But who is Gasson?”

“A small boy who fell into a well and broke his leg. You carried him forth on your back. Had you not, he would surely have drowned.”

That sounded like a bit more work than Sméagol usually went to. “Good Sméagol,” he said, deciding not to bother denying it. Who else would be messing about in wells?

“Very good. And there was the matter of abandoned infants found and taken to the guards. Do you remember them?”

“Yes… yes… why do people leave them?”

“There are many reasons, it is an evil that is in every city of large size. There is less of it here than in other places for all know that children left at the Houses of Healing will be taken in, with no comment made or record kept.”

“Is that so. Then… why are they left where they are not safe?”

“That I know not. You have found two in three years, is that so? Were there others?”

“No, that was all.”

“It is still too many, but they were rescued by your ‘nosing into dark corners’ as you’ve called it. There was a woman who you saved from drowning, as well, I have heard.”

“Ach, yes, that, I remember it. I am not proud of it, I bit her.”

“She bears you no ill will. She understood that you needed to free your hands. I for one am well pleased with you.”

“Boromir is kind.”

“The King is pleased, as well. I felt he must know what service you have done.”

The King! Boromir was often pleased with Sméagol even if Sméagol was not really doing anything, but the King was not so. 

“And,” Boromir continued, “I have the pleasure of conferring on you a mark of our gratitude, a token of the King’s esteem and my own. You know well the White Tree of Gondor that the guards wear upon their breasts, I deem. Here is a smaller version, which you may wear to mark you as a friend of the city.” He pulled from his belt pouch a metal disk with the familiar tree and seven stars carved upon it and embellished with enamel. “Tis a brooch. It could be used to fasten the capelet you wear, if you so choose.”

It was a treasure. A gift? For Sméagol? It was the kind of thing he was usually not permitted to touch, lest he dirty it. He had nice things, of course, other presents, but this! It had been made for him? He did not feel he deserved it, but he wanted it so much that he started to make up reasons why perhaps he did deserve it. The King wouldn’t give him a present he didn’t deserve, would he?

He had had so many excuses for taking and keeping the Precious. He eyed the brooch with uncertain longing. Next to the Precious itself it looked like the most beautiful thing ever created.

“It is yours!” Boromir said. “You may take it.”

Sméagol surely didn’t deserve it. “It will smudge if I touch it.”

“It may be polished, then. It belongs to you!”
Sméagol could withstand it no longer. He snatched the brooch, turned it over in his hands, explored the design with his fingers. Smooth enamel, smooth metal, cool and ridged and shining, the shapes and edges of the Tree and the Seven Stars insinuating themselves into his hand. Careful of the pin! He fumbled with it a bit, found his fingers clumsy, was shy of the point. “Put it on! Put it on!” he shrieked, pressing the brooch into Boromir’s hand. He wanted his present and he wanted to wear it proudly- a friend of the City! The King had said so! It must be true if the King said it! 

But he had forgotten that Boromir was a Lord and he may condescend to be friends with Sméagol but would surely not wait on him. He did not move to attach the brooch.

“O forgive us, my Lord, I am a poor old creature and I had forgotten, someone else will do it,” Sméagol said, blushing.

“I am quite willing to aid you in any way you ask,” Boromir said. “It is only that- I believed you feared my hand.”

Sméagol blinked. “Yours? No, of course not! Why should I?”

“I believed you feared I may injure you.”

Now it made sense, of course, the big Man was always so skittish of hurting anyone. “No, how silly! He would never. Put on our brooch, then, if you do not mind it.” Or maybe Sméagol was the one being obtuse after all. “Unless he would not like to? Does he not want to be so near us- is it because I am cold and slimy?”

“Nay, that is not so! It is only- you are very small to my eyes. And your skin is so pale and soft, and looks as if I may pierce it with a nail if my fingers slip!”

“Not at all, it is tough and stretchy! Put our brooch on then,” he begged, “if he really doesn’t mind it, put it on! Here, here!” He gestured to his collar. “Needn’t touch us, if he doesn’t want to, only touch our clothes.”

Boromir was shy and wary attaching the brooch. His fingers accidentally brushed Sméagol’s neck, and unfortunately, Sméagol was ticklish and squeaked, and then had to reassure the poor silly Man that he had not stabbed Sméagol in the throat with the tiny little pin or caused him a mortal offense. Somehow the brooch was attached in the end. “A looking glass,” cried Sméagol, and then he remembered why he did not have one. “Never mind, we do not want one, does it look well?”

“Indeed it does,” said Boromir, who looked immensely relieved.

“Good! Good! Now take it back off!” Seeing Boromir’s reaction he added, patiently and reassuringly: “We will get it dirty if we wears it, and no one will see it if we wears it in our house. Don’t flinch so, you will not hurt Sméagol, just take the brooch off nicely and slowly.” This was managed more easily than attaching the brooch. “Very good! See? He put it on and off again and didn’t hurt Sméagol at all, did he?”

“It seems I managed not to.”

“He didn’t hurt us at all. Now I will put this away, somewhere safe. Ha, ha! I feel as if they will realize it is all a mistake and take it away, so I must hide it.”

“A mistake! Why should it be a mistake?” 

“It does not feel as if- Sméagol was going about doing nice things, like a Man of the White Tree,” he said. “I was on my own business, and peoples were interrupting. And I said to myself, what a bother it is that I must do something, and I was very put out, and not very nice at all. And it all seemed- sad and tiresome, a nasty business. To be done in the dark.”

“Ah,” said Boromir. “In this you need not fear that you are different from Men or even different from heroes. For I did pledge my life to serving others, and before you knew me, when Isildur’s Bane had not touched me, I was stalwart in mind and certain of myself in all ways- too certain, some would say; surely it was easier. And yet even at that time I too felt that rescuing others was most often sad and tiresome work. And often done in the dark as well, whether I would or no.”

“It is?” Sméagol asked. “But-“ He didn’t know what to say after ‘but’ and so he simply stopped.

“Even the King finds toil for others’ sake wearisome,” said Boromir. “If goodness were easy, why would it be commendable? If it were pleasurable in all ways, why would we give you a reward? And a handsome one, too; it was our intention that you would enjoy your present. I am happy that you do.”

Why, perhaps that was why Gandalf had been so sour and Sam so angry. They had been too good, and it had given them dyspepsia. 

This line of thinking did not seem quite right to Sméagol but nor could he disprove it to himself. He decided to let it alone and be happy with his brooch.

Chapter Text

“He is not. You’ve never met him.”

Prestien stood there with her fists planted on her hips. She made up stories all the time, but never did she act as if she really intended people to believe them- it was harmless stuff about fairies and things like that, up until today when she decided to claim she was friends with Sméagol, the creature with something to do with the Ring-bearer who lived underground somewhere in the Sixth Circle. Devrion had never even seen Sméagol, and didn’t know anyone who had.  

“He is my friend,” Prestien insisted, nevertheless. “He was lost in the City. I helped him. He was a little smaller than you, and he smelled dreadful because he had been in the sewers, but I did not say so because it would have been rude. My mother brought him home and gave him a drink of water and I asked him why his feet are webbed. He told me it is because he swims so much. I think that is what he was doing in the sewer.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Devrion. “Your mother doesn’t give me water when I ask.”

“That’s because you can get it at home, and Sméagol couldn’t because he was lost and thirsty.”

“Alright, if you have seen him, what manner of creature is he?”

“He’s a perian,” Prestien declared.

Like Peregrin, son of Paladin, and Meriadoc the Squire of Rohan? “He absolutely is not,” said Devrion. “You said he had webbed feet.”

“Yes, because he swims so much. He told me so!”

“You’ve never even seen him.”

She would not give it up, either. Every time they were all playing together and Clauron started talking about how he’d once seen Samwise the Brave at the market, Prestien started claiming that she was friends with Sméagol. If that wasn’t annoying enough, she also believed Olthon when he said the Ringfinder had stood outside his window once and told him poems- and a few days later she came up with a new story.

“Sméagol was outside my window last night,” she said breathlessly. “He was holding something wrapped in a cloth he wouldn’t show me. He said he had a grown-up problem he wouldn’t tell me about. My father went out to him to see what it was and then he told me Sméagol had found a dead soldier in the sewer and we were going to give him a decent burial.”

“He did not find a dead soldier in the sewer,” said Devrion. “I know you’re only little, but you ought to know better than to make up such things!”

One evening Devrion was leading her to the shops (oh, the tribulations of being the eldest cousin!) when she suddenly broke free of his grip with a little cry. She was heading for a dark shape that was shuffling around in the street.

“Get back here!” Devrion shouted.

“It’s Sméagol!”

The shape glanced back at her, froze briefly, and went scurrying away around the corner. Devrion caught up with Prestien and grabbed her small hand. “There! He doesn’t know you,” he said, yanking her closer with the roughness of someone who has just almost suffered the escape of a child for whom he has been made responsible. “Now stop telling lies!” He didn’t even think it had really been Sméagol.

Prestien scowled and blinked very fast. “I’m not lying. He must be too busy to stop.” 

“You don’t know him. You’ve never met-“ He stopped there because something was very close to him on his left side, a sort of clammy, angry presence. He turned his head, telling himself he was being foolish and nothing was there, dreading what was there and trembling, and too proud to resist looking.

Cold eyes gleamed back at him. “She is not a liar,” a sputtering, shrill voice said, “we is just too busy to stop, that is all, and he is a nasty rude little boy, he is!”

Devrion blinked a few times. Sméagol was standing upright, in a precarious bow-legged fashion, but upright- this made it easy to see that he was half a head shorter than Devrion, which took the dread out of his presence somewhat. But his shoulders were broad and his frame was wiry and tough, and his hands were bony and no doubt his knuckles hit like cut glass. Also, he was showing his fangs, and they were large.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Devrion, who was a sensible child.

“Sir,” Sméagol scoffed, and crouched down on the ground, his eyes remaining fixed intently on Devrion’s. After a moment, though, he broke his gaze, and turned away, pulling his hood up over his face. “Sorry, he says; to us! He did not call Sméagol a liar, did he?” His voice was thin and petulant. “But he’s sorry to us, is he?”

Prestien ran in then and threw her arms around Sméagol’s neck and shoulders as if he was a friendly dog. Sméagol looked horrified.

“Thank you. No one would believe me,” she mumbled into his ear. It was a pointed ear. Devrion began to wonder if Sméagol really was a perian- then he noticed the webbed feet, and didn’t know what to think. He recalled- with great discomfort- that Prestien had mentioned the webbed feet before. She really had seen them.

Sméagol stammered something unintelligible and would not look at her. She let go and stepped back a bit.

“I’m sorry, Prestien,” said Devrion. He kicked at the ground. The experience of being scolded by an ugly old maybe-perian was new to him and he did not like it. He liked it all the less because he suspected that he had been unfair to Prestien, and while Sméagol might not be quite correct to snap and snarl, he was well within his rights to scold in some fashion.

Prestien turned a wide-eyed, hopeful face to him. “And now you’ll tell the others that I do know Sméagol, won’t you?”

“They won’t believe me..."

Sméagol had begun to slink away, so quietly that they had not noticed he was leaving, but now he stopped in his tracks and looked back at them. “What’s that, eh? They won’t believe him? Ssuch a shame.”

“Sméagol,” Prestien said, “he’s my friend, and he didn’t mean to hurt my feelings. I don’t want you to make him upset.”

“No?” Sméagol said. “What a lovely kind little girl she is. Ha, ha! But he has made himself upset by being nasty to people, hasn’t he?”

“But you didn’t need to yell at him.”

“Didn’t need to? No, perhaps not. But I wanted to. And I have. And I am not sorry for it at all.” He certainly didn’t sound sorry. “Now we must go; Sméagol is taking a letter and must make haste! He is busy.” This last he said rather defensively. “Like a wasp.”

“You mean busy like a bee,” said Devrion.

“No,” said Sméagol, with a very direct look at him. “Bees is busy doing nice things.”

He sounded so much like he thought Devrion to be an idiot of the highest order that Devrion actually began to feel a little foolish. Yes, of course Sméagol was more like a wasp.

“But taking a letter is nice,” said Prestien.

Sméagol just shook his head and looked tight-lipped.

“Well, good night, Sméagol,” said Prestien. “I hope your work goes well.”

Sméagol mumbled something as he scurried around the corner. Prestien turned to Devrion and beamed.

“Alright,” Devrion said, “I’ll tell them you really know him.” He had a horrible feeling that if he did not, Sméagol might find him somehow. 

 Devrion was respected by his friends and no one outright said they didn’t believe him, but he could feel the doubts coming off them. 

“What did he look like?” Himben asked politely.

“I’m not sure,” said Devrion. “It was quite dark, and he was wearing a hood…” He tried to summon up the memory of Sméagol’s angry face looking up into his. He’d been close enough to touch, but his face sort of slipped off of the surface of Devrion’s mind. Oddly, he found himself picturing a very small, very ordinary, dour-faced old man with most of his teeth missing. That was not what he had seen at the time.

Costion had been sitting on a crate nearby, listening to this, and now he hopped to his feet. “Here,” he said. “I know where Sméagol is supposed to live, and I think we should go and see him and settle it once and for all, and Prestien should come too.”

Devrion thought this sounded unwise, but he believed that if he said so his friends would infer that he had never really seen Sméagol and expected the creature to say so if called into question. So he simply followed Costion and Himben up the road, and along the way they collected Prestien.

They were stopped at the gate to the Sixth Circle. Himben’s uncle was one of the guards, and he asked: “Whatever are you coming here for? You don’t have any friends who live here, and there’s nothing you would care to buy for sale.”

Devrion interjected, hoping just a little that the guards would stop them. “We want to visit Sméagol, sir.”

“Sméagol? Why do you wish to see him?” the guard asked.

“He’s my friend,” Prestien asserted.

“Ah,” said the guard. “He is mine, too, I suspect. At least, he is friendly enough when he passes through the gate instead of deigning to climb over it. I am not sure he knows my face, however. I suspect all guards are alike to him.”

“Does he really climb over the gate?” Devrion asked.

“No, I misspoke. He usually prefers the wall, a little farther in closer to his house.”

The children all looked up at the wall, the height of it.

“I could not climb it,” said the guard. “We call him Ramreth, wall-climber, when we don’t wish him to know we are talking about him.”

The wall had no handholds or footholds. It was not built to be climbed- quite the opposite.

“If you would like to see him,” said the guard, “his building is the fourth on the left, that way; and he often sits in the window and calls to passers-by. But if he is inside with the shutters drawn you must leave him in peace.”

An invitation was not at all what Devrion had expected and his friends looked surprised too. Himben politely thanked the guard, and they all went inside. Only Prestien was smiling.

Twas easy enough to tell which was the right place because Sméagol was crouched in the window, looking about at the goings-on outside. He spotted them quickly, and watched them with interest. When he realized they were all coming towards his window, interest turned to horror, and as they drew near he vanished inside and slammed the shutters.

“Oh, well,” said Devrion, “Himben’s uncle said we must go away if he closes up the window. Prestien, no!” She was of course going right up to the window and calling for Sméagol.

The shutters opened enough to see a small twitching nose. “Go away, gollum! Sméagol can’t talk. Sss, sss, he’s busy! He’s sick! He’s too old. Go away! Go home!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sméagol. I can come back later.”

A pair of blinking eyes joined the nose in the window. “No, no, not later! Not ever. Why would she come at all?”

“She thought she was your friend,” Himben said, looking rather tall and stern for a nine-year-old boy.

Now Sméagol’s entire face was in the window- he had put his head out between the shutters and was looking around at all of them. “Sss. It is Presstien, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“How does she know where we lives?”

“Um. He knew.”

“He knew? Ach! This is her other little friends, isn’t it? The ones that call her a liar, eh? So that is why you’ve come!” His eyes narrowed, his anger shifting targets. “They are still calling her a liar! Well, she is not!”

“No, they haven’t been calling me a liar, they just wanted to see you too,” said Prestien.

“Did they? Was they curious? Not wise to be curious. Sméagol may be dangerous. He may pull you inside and eat you up. Gollum! They shouldn’t come.”

“We are standing too far away to be grabbed,” said Costion, looking nonplussed. “Except for Prestien. I suppose you can eat her if you want to.”

“No,” said Devrion in alarm, as Prestien’s parents would be very angry with him if she were to be eaten when he was nominally in charge.

“But you don’t eat people any more, Sméagol,” said Prestien, sitting down by the window. “You said so in front of the King’s court. My father told me.”

Sméagol considered her for a moment, and then with a clumsy little lurching hop, all of him was outside in the grass. “There,” he sniffed. “That’s what they’ve come for.”

As he had been surprised and wasn’t dressed to be seen, he was not wearing a hood, and his whole long spindly neck was out in the open with the knobby bones sticking out on the back of it. He had thin straggling hair that was stuck to his temples with sweat. His arms and legs looked like they had been taken off and put back on at the wrong angles.

“Are you really Prestien’s friend?” Himben asked.

Sméagol hesitated only a moment. “Yes,” he said. “She hasn’t lied. Not nice to say people is lying when they haven’t lied. Has she lied before?”

“No,” said Devrion. His face felt hot.

“Why would she lie now?”

“She wouldn’t,” said Devrion.

“And about something so foolish.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t be angry with them,” said Prestien. “They didn’t mean to hurt my feelings.”

This of course made Devrion feel even worse.

“We weren’t being mean,” said Costion. “We just didn’t see any reason why you would be friends with her.”

“Why not?” Sméagol demanded. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing, of course, but why would you make friends with her?”

“They knows nothing about Sméagol except what she told them. Isn’t that right, my precious? They don’t know who we would be friends with or would not be friends with. Perhaps Sméagol is very friendly with everyone except for rude nasty little boys who say their friends is lying, gollum! So then why would they say she is lying? What would make them think she would do it?”

Devrion didn’t think Sméagol had seemed friendly so far, but he had no desire to draw attention by saying anything.

“She’s always making up stories,” Costion insisted.

“Making up stories isn’t lies,” Sméagol said, squeaking with exasperation. “Even I know that!”

“I’m sorry, Prestien,” said Himben, turning to her. “I shouldn’t have said you were lying.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “He said he was sorry, Sméagol.”

“He hasn’t,” said Sméagol, looking up at Costion. “Nice and plump he is, isn’t he? Yes, he is soft, and he is close enough to grab now, we thinks.”

“I’m sorry,” Costion said. “But I don’t think you will really eat me.”

Sméagol yawned, showing his fangs.

“And,” Costion insisted, “I don’t think you’re fast enough to catch me.”

“I don’t know any longer whether I am or not,” said Sméagol. “It has been a long time since I tried to catch anyone. He might run and see. He is backing up- ha, ha! He’ll have to go a bit faster than that, won’t he?”

“Sméagol doesn’t really eat people,” said Prestien. “He’s joking.”

“No, no, he doesn’t eat anyone anymore,” said Sméagol. “Very nice Sméagol; but we’ll chase him if he wants to see if we’ll catch him. We may not.”

Sméagol looked skinny and weak, but he also had the lazy, confident air of someone who knows it’s well in his power to do what he boasts, and Devrion doubted it would be wise to test his speed.

“Have you really eaten people?” Costion demanded.

A look of unease flitted across Sméagol’s face. “Yes,” he said.

“What do people taste like?”

“Pigs.”

“That’s not very nice.”

“No,” said Sméagol. “It is murder, and it isn’t nice at all.”

“I meant it’s not nice to call us pigs,” said Costion.

“I wasn’t,” said Sméagol. “You asked, ‘what do people taste like’? And I said, they tastes like pig, only softer, and a bit better- gollum! I did not say, he is a pig, or he is shaped like a pig, or he is squealing like a pig, or he smells like one. I could say those things if he wishes it, but I did not. Now-“ He stopped and looked a little ashamed of himself. Prestien had raised her chin in exactly the same disapproving manner that her mother sometimes did.

“I am curious if I could outrun you,” said Himben. “But I don’t want to be caught and eaten. Perhaps we could run an ordinary race.”

“If he likes.” Sméagol looked a little too calm.

In the end, Costion, Himben, and Sméagol lined up for a race- and so did Prestien, even though she had much shorter legs, and admitted she knew she would not win. Devrion declined, saying someone had to call the winner. In fact he suspected Sméagol would win, and then gloat, and he found the idea unpleasant… but he was not altogether dreading the idea of Costion being gloated over.

And, as it happened, although Sméagol was as thin as a frayed string and his legs were shorter than Himben’s, he had a way of bounding forward like a frog and won handily. He laughed and said he had had much longer practice than the others and had his little tricks, but even so they would grow up soon and outrun Sméagol with their tall Man-legs no matter how much he practiced, which was more gracious than Devrion had expected- then he began to terrorize Costion by looking at him meaningfully and licking his fangs, which was just what Devrion had expected.

“Well, I’ve seen you,” said Himben, “and now I know Devrion and Prestien really did see you too, and that’s enough for me- I can go home.”

“I can go with you in case you need help,” said Costion, leaving with more haste than he needed.

“Say, Sméagol,” said Devrion, “I should like to race you, as well, but- I don’t care for so short a race. Perhaps we could race to the wall?”

Sméagol gave him a sideways glance. “No,” he said.

Sméagol had chosen the length of the original race and had chosen a distance he could clear in two leaps. Devrion suspected that he slowed down a great deal after making two leaps and there was something in that sideways glance that said Sméagol had guessed these suspicions, and did not want to outright confirm them.

Devrion also suspected that Sméagol could easily catch up to someone trying to run away from him before that person got more than two leaps ahead. “Do you really climb the wall or do you just make the guards think you do?”

“Now that is silly!” he said with a smile- a real one that touched his strange luminous eyes. “How would Sméagol make the guards think he’d climbed a wall? They watches us the whole way up! We are not magic.”

“Will you climb it now?”

“No. Not now. We are tired.” He began to move back towards his window.

“Sméagol?” Prestien asked.

The creature paused.

“My friend Faussel said you told her a story.” Prestien began to pick at her sleeves.

“A story? When?”

“It was raining and you told her about the War.”

This was the first Devrion was hearing about it. Maybe Sméagol really was friends with everyone else in the city.

Sméagol sat in the grass. An odd change came over his face- he looked old and tired. “I don’t have nice stories to tell. But perhaps one day… if she comes back I will tell her someone else’s story. I am finding them. Keeping them.”

“I don’t want to hear someone else’s story- I’d like to hear yours.”

He shook his head. “I told it already. To the King.”

“Oh. I see,” said Prestien.

“We has nice stories,” Sméagol wheedled. “That aren’t ours. We just took a very nice one from an old lady near the shopses, didn’t we?”

“I will listen if that is all you want to share.”

“Yes, yes. Later!”

“Later,” Prestien agreed. “Good night!”

Sméagol vanished into his window, and Devrion took Prestien by the hand, leading her home.