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I implore you to make use of this book before you carry out your threats to write to anyone. It will go a long way towards improving your relationships.
~G
PS: I will have no address, and you need not attempt to write to me.
To Sméagol, in hopes that he will develop a skill he has not yet had the opportunity to learn.
~Bilbo Baggins
These were the inscriptions written neatly on the first page of a book called The Basics of Grammar for Very Young Children. Sméagol had been properly offended by this present, which he had found sitting on the table in his room after recovering from his trial in front of the King. As soon as he'd gotten back from said trial, he'd taken to his bed with what some people had said was a fever and others had called a nervous breakdown. Whatever it was, Sméagol had come out of it to find out that all the hobbits had left and Aragorn had married an Elf, because of course Aragorn was the sort of person who would marry an Elf. Gandalf had left too, and he'd left a long note that opened by saying he'd never see Sméagol again.
Everyone had left notes, and there had been two presents as well, this grammar book with inscriptions in it from Gandalf and Bilbo, and a book full of maps of Gondor with inscriptions from all of the hobbits- aside from Bilbo, who had preferred to give his approval to the grammar book. The book of maps had more complimentary inscriptions. Both lay open on the table- the map-book was open to a chart of Minas Tirith. (The books covered up the permanent ink drawings of Rings that a foolish old creature had defaced the surface of the table with back in the late springtime.)
Sméagol stared at the two books from within a little cocoon of blankets wound all around his body and pulled up over the top of his head. He had planned to leaf through the grammar book a bit, as it did help when he was trying to write things, but he hadn't gotten past the inscriptions. He'd also intended to use the pencil and paper that lay next to the books, but those too sat untouched. Supposing that, instead of reaching his arm out from the warm confines of the blanket, and into the chill air of the room, to pick up the pencil- supposing instead of all of that, he went back to bed?
After all no one had told him he had to be anywhere tonight. He had had to be somewhere last night- the city guards had brought him to a section of the city wall and asked him to check it for breaches. Sméagol was allowed to sneak and creep around to his heart's content, and show off what he knew about breaking into places while he did so, and also put all of his experience and skill to good use- it was like a riddle that was made out of stone and shaped like a wall. He had been ever so pleased when he had found a tiny little secret passage tucked under a corner of the wall, and so had the guards, because now they could block up that tunnel and rats would stop using it. But all of that had taken hours, and now Sméagol was tired and his ridiculously old skeleton ached all over from having been out in the cold so long, and he was a little bit sniffly.
Before he could make up his mind to give all of it up and go back to bed, a soft tapping sounded on the door. It opened, and Maeron peeked through it. He looked like a rabbit peeking out of its burrow, Sméagol thought- and then, given his past history and the fact that he'd had rabbit for supper last morning, that comparison struck him as unpleasant.
"Good evening- I came to wake you, as you asked, but you are awake already, I see," said Maeron, with no small amount of relief.
"Might be awake," said Sméagol. "Not sure." Maeron was wearing heavy gloves, perhaps because when Sméagol was woken up he still had the bad habit of getting confused and nipping at whatever was near his face. No wonder Maeron looked relieved.
"Do you want your breakfast at the usual time," the Man asked, "or now?"
"Now, if he pleases."
"What would you prefer to eat?"
He hesitated a moment, then answered: "Eggses." Time was short and it took him a long time to chew meat.
"Very well. I'll be back soon." The Man left.
Sméagol eyed the papers in front of him. He wanted to write Frodo a letter, but he couldn't think of how to start. Frodo hadn't replied to his last letter yet, and that made him wonder if he'd written something offensive- although he knew it was hard to even get mail to go as far away as the Shire. He'd wondered if he ought to write to Sam as well, and what he could possibly have to say to Sam. Then he'd realized that Sam might read Frodo's mail anyway. Then he'd additionally realized that Sam might read Frodo's mail before Frodo saw it and get rid of anything that he thought was unworthy of Frodo's attention. Now Sméagol not only had the job of finding something worth saying to the Master, but (in his mind) it had to pass Sam's scrutiny before Frodo even saw it.
He sat there in an indecisive stupor until Maeron came back with a tray bearing a bowl of raw eggs and washing-up things for after.
"Thanks ye," said Sméagol, pulling the tray a bit closer and turning demurely away from Maeron, who left. Normally whoever brought Sméagol his food did not stay to watch him eat, as he did not like to be watched, and no one liked to watch him. The empty tray was then removed by the next person who came in.
Sméagol wondered idly where it was that Maeron went off to when he left the room. Faelon went to his gardens, Eardwulf went to his dogs, Galil went to do some kind of work he didn't quite understand in a nearby building. Maeron scurried over the threshhold and seemed to vanish. Sméagol would have to ask about it.
He ate quickly and washed up even faster, and finally left the table with a reluctant sigh. The matter of the letter would have to wait for later.
It was still quite early for him- the Sun was still up. Fortunately it was overcast. He dressed in a plain outfit- it was something the King had had tailor-made for him and it was more comfortable than anything he could remember wearing- and then started getting together his going-out things. First he had boots (which he had somehow left on top of the wardrobe).
"Imagine wearing shoeses to go out," Sméagol said to himself, while putting them on. They were flexible and could be pulled on without laces or straps or anything of that sort. "They'd laugh at us back home." The boots had been a present after he had come back from traveling the cold streets of the city with raw feet and hands, and now he didn't know how he had gotten along without them. Showing up in a pair of boots would have been the least of the things that would make his family stare if he were somehow able to turn up among them now, of course. That was his little joke.
He had a coat, too, which had a lot of little buttons- apparently it needed to be a certain particular fit so that he could crawl about in it and therefore it needed all of these buttons. Sméagol couldn't do the buttons by himself. He left the coat open for the minute, and- alas!- retrieved a pair of mittens from the pocket. He didn't realize how much he used his sense of touch until he put the mittens on- they made him feel as if he'd been blindfolded. What was worse, they were blue, and had little silver fishes embroidered on them. He had been told these mittens 'matched his eyes', which sounded dreadful.
Sméagol did not as a rule think about the aesthetics of what he wore, or have any sense of fashion, but on some level he had a dim sense that he ought not to look cheerful, and he ought not to wear the bright colors that normal hobbits wore, because they were not suited for his ugliness. When he could choose what he wore, he chose from the drabbest colors the Men would give him, and wished they would let him wear black. True, wearing black in a city with so much white and gray and tan in it might make him stand out like an ink splot, when he preferred not to be noticed- but it was a nice color...
But instead he had blue and silver mittens. Sméagol could only put one of these mittens on by himself, because whichever hand was wearing a mitten became too clumsy to put the other mitten on the other hand. As always, he tried this operation, scowled, and shoved the unworn mitten back into his pocket.
Once he had dressed as much as he was able, he retrieved a clinking pouch of coins from under the bed and put it in his coat pocket. The sound of the coins reminded him of that story Baggins had told him once, about stealing the ring of keys from the guard in the Mirkwood dungeons, and the noises it had made.
(Sméagol had written a letter for Bilbo almost as soon as he'd found out the old burglar had left, but had not been able to bring himself to ask anyone to send it yet, as, when reading it over, this letter sounded very much like the plea of a child who wanted attention, and perhaps Baggins ought not to see it. Sméagol did have a little bit of pride.)
Outside of his room Sméagol found that one of the more serious-minded guards was there. "Good evening," he said.
"Good evening," said the guard.
"Sméagol is going for a bit of a walk," he ventured. "Just a short one." He waited with bated breath for the reply. Sometimes the guard told him he ought not to go outside, for one reason or another- often because the King was having a party and there were strangers or Elves around, or because Denethor had slipped out somewhere and no one knew where he was. Sméagol was never forbidden to go out, but he tended to agree when someone suggested he would not want to. Today, however, he had to go out.
"Very well," said the guard.
"We'll go now, then!" said Sméagol. "Only- we can't finish putting things on. Might he help us?"
"What do you need help with?"
"Mitten and buttons. Can't do it," said Sméagol. "We tried."
"Ah. That is a small task. Very well," said the guard, getting down on one knee on the floor so he could reach Sméagol's coat.
Sméagol preferred not to have strangers help to dress him, especially when they needed to touch his hands. He suspected the guard would have preferred not to help with this task either, but he was gentle enough, and he got the buttons done and the mitten on. Sméagol mumbled an awkward thanks and scurried outside.
There was no snow on the ground. Sméagol had been told that snow was rare in Minas Tirith, which was all well and good- the ground was cold enough without it. The cold seeped into his mittens and boots, making him grudgingly aware that he did need both, which he had known already or else he would never have consented to wear them at all.
He had to be very careful about finding his way in light that was dim enough to tolerate but not dim enough to see comfortably, and then to getting the gate guard's attention to let him go into the next Circle- he was low to the ground and had to sit up and whine and wave around his ridiculous mittens to be noticed and let through- and then to finding his way again from there. He had learned much of the city by now but smells were rather different in this cold. He was so absorbed in finding his way that he did not notice the approaching figures until he was in the middle of a whole pack of them.
In fact he didn't notice them until Prestien leaned into his field of view and started waving frantically. Then Sméagol checked, froze in place and looked about- there were children surrounding him on all sides. All of them were bundled up in various combinations of coats, cloaks, hoods, scarves, boots and ridiculous colorful mittens.
"Hello, Sméagol!" Prestien chirped. "Good evening."
"O! You frightened us, you did," Sméagol whined.
"But I was calling you- you didn't hear me."
"Sméagol is old! He can't always hear everyone," he answered. "You should have been louder."
"But people have asked me not to be so loud," said Prestien.
"They is wrong. We are older. That means wiser," said Sméagol, "people says so, anyway." Though no one had ever said that about himself specifically. "Sméagol is going to the market, does she know the way?" He knew he could find it on his own if he had to, but he could get there so much faster by following someone more familiar with the city.
"I do know the way! Here, I'll show you." Prestien walked out in front, looking self-important, and he trotted along behind her. All of Prestien's friends followed too.
"My, my cousin said he gave you a mouse and he eated it." This was from a particularly small child, stumping along on stub legs and so swaddled in cloth that no distinguishing characteristics could be seen.
"I did not," Sméagol huffed. "You are cousins with the nassty little boy who stopped us at the gate, are you?"
"He's not nasty!"
"He is, he wanted me to eat a live mouse right in front of everybody. That is not nice, it's not nice for Sméagol to eat mices, he only eats things like that because he's sick and he can't help it, and no one should want to watch. We said we would not do it." But he'd kept the mouse and eaten it in private.
"I don't think anyone should want to watch somebody eat a mouse," said Prestien with a shudder. "And if I had to do that sort of thing I wouldn't want people to try to watch me as if it was some kind of trick."
"Yes!" said Sméagol.
"I didn't know you were sick," said another child whose name Sméagol had forgotten or never known.
Sméagol nodded, his eyes on Prestien who was leading him on a meandering path through the streets. "The Precious made us sick. We are better than we was, but we can't eat the kinds of foods that you eats."
"What's the Precious?"
"The Enemy's Ring," someone whispered before Sméagol had to answer.
"Did it make the Ring-bearer sick too?" Prestien asked. "I don't want anything bad to happen to him."
"The Master?" Sméagol mused. "He is not the same way as us. I kept it much longer than he did. I shouldn't have had it at all."
"But you had to have it, or else you couldn't have thrown it away when the Ring-bearer needed you to," said Prestien. She sounded almost offended by the notion that Sméagol shouldn't have had the Ring.
Sméagol said nothing.
"Is that why you cough a lot?" another child asked.
Sméagol shook his head. "No... the King said it is because we breathed a lot of scorching dry smokes when we went with the Master to the mountain."
"The King said so?"
"Yes, we kept on coughing, and people got upset that we kept doing it, and then the King came and looked at us and said our chest was bad. When he turned up I thought I was in trouble!"
"My papa watched your trial. You were in big trouble then. He says that if I do something bad I'll have to go on trial too." This was the small bundled child. "Are you in trouble now? What did you do?"
Before Sméagol could think of how to respond to that, someone else asked:
"Why did you breathe so much smokes? Er, smoke?"
"Because there wasn't anything else to breathe!" he exclaimed. "But it is better in the cool and damp... we are much better now that summer is well over."
The child who'd asked looked concerned. "But summer will come again. Cannot the King help you? My father said he can heal anyone."
"Sméagol is not anyone," he replied. "The coughing is not so very bad."
"Do all hobbits walk around on all fours?"
"No," said the small child, before Sméagol could reply. "No, because- because Bergil saw the Halfling Prince and they played swords. The Halfling Prince stands up and he can fight with a sword and he has armor and he's shiny and he's bigger than Sméagol. My papa says Sméagol can't walk right or use swords because he killed somebody and the King punished him."
"No," said Sméagol with some alarm. He had been instructed that- although no one was likely to take him too seriously, for several reasons- there were certain things he shouldn't allow to be misunderstood because it could cause a political nightmare. "The King did not do anything to Sméagol. That is another thing the Pr- the Enemy's Ring did to us, and also Sméagol is very old, he is, and his back is bent."
"My papa says- you ought not live here," the small child said breathlessly. "Why ought you not?"
"Of course he can live here," said Prestien. "That's not nice to say to Sméagol- I don't think your papa meant you should tell it to him!"
Sméagol laughed dryly. "I don't mind. Of course I ought not live here! I've done wicked, cruel things, and my family said I ought not live with them. So why should I be let to stay here, eh? Does they know why?"
"Because you've never done anything bad here," said Prestien.
"No, that is not why- at least- it is only a small part. I am here because you all has such a nice and lovely King. If your father says the King ought not to forgive Sméagol, you could try telling him that one day he might do something that makes other peoples think he ought not live here- and then he would like to have a nice lovely King then, wouldn't he? When I was your age, I never thought I would do something that needed to be pardoned by the King of all Gondor."
"I won't do anything that bad," said the small child, quite firmly.
"Good, good," said Sméagol. "Only, suppose something tests you some day, and you fail, and everything goes wrong and starts getting worse for you- and it becomes hard to do right ever again, and everything is dreadful; you may need help to get better again, and then if someone helps you when you don't deserve it that is his business. So- you must ask the King about it if you thinks we are too bad to live in your city- and the Ringbearer too."
Just then a woman holding a basket stepped out of a nearby house, saw the pack of children and the Halfling mixed in among them, and frowned at them. "It is nearly dark! What are all of you doing out so late?"
"Oh no! It is late. Excuse me," said Prestien, stopping and looking bashful. "I oughtn't go all the way to the market. It's getting dark and my mother will worry. I'm sorry."
"Just point our way, then," Sméagol said politely. She pointed, and he stood up, trying to see what she was pointing at.
"Let's go home," said Prestien. "Come on, come on!"
She and her friends started running away, calling good-byes to Sméagol as they did so. He waved distractedly, still standing and peering and trying to figure out what Prestien had been pointing at. There were two streets that looked equally likely.
"You ought to be getting home as well, young man- your parents will surely worry about where you have gotten to."
Sméagol looked around to see who the woman was talking to, and then blinked at her in confusion, dropping to all fours. Getting a better look at him, she gasped in shock. He turned away, frowning.
"The Ringbearer's guide! Oh, I am sorry," the woman said. "I- I meant no disrespect."
"Which way is the market?" said Sméagol, knowing he should be gracious, feeling in no mood to be gracious, and deciding to change the subject. It didn't bother him to be mistaken for a child of Men- he was sized like one, and his shape was hidden by his coat, and most Gondorians had never seen a Halfling, and Sméagol didn't even look like a proper Halfling anymore. The gasp of shock when the woman realized her mistake was what bothered him, even if she probably couldn't help it.
"The market has closed for the evening-"
"What? No!" He sat up. "I knew it, it's closed, we'll never get there, I've missed it, it is all because of this filthy stinking coat and all of its buttonses making us late, gollum!" In rage and sorrow, he tried to tear one of the mittens off with his teeth but it was stuck.
"Calm!" cried the woman. "There are stores yet open."
"Storeses? Which ones?" Sméagol asked, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. This didn't solve his problem entirely. He wasn't guaranteed a warm welcome in close quarters inside a shop, particularly if he was wearing this getup, which had developed a pond-y odor.
"Most of them close after dark, and it is not yet dark. What do you need?"
"Birthday-present. For our friend," said Sméagol. "His birthday is tomorrow and Sméagol could not get away before and the market is already done. He will think we forgot all about him."
"Ah! Is that it! If you're looking for a gift I know a shop that sells lovely things." She hesitated a moment, and said: "Shall I lead you there?"
"Yes, yes! We might get lost!" He had been to the shops only rarely, and on most of those occasions he had been given a message to carry and specific directions, or had had a companion.
"Come along, then, Sméagol." She moved away and Sméagol followed. She moved at a brisker pace than Prestien (who was motivated enough, but had short legs), and he had to scamper to keep up. He might have asked her to slow down if he were not in such a hurry. If only he could bear the Sun! He might have come out when things weren't nearing the end of business hours. (It did not occur to Sméagol that if the Yellow Face had not kept him inside, the crowds of a market in full swing might have frightened him into fits.)
They headed through streets and beside homes with a gentle chatter of conversation going on inside. There were pine boughs on windowsills and affixed to doors. Yule was coming. Sméagol was not fond of Yule- like all things born of happiness and joy, it gave him the same sick twisty feeling that Elf-song did. But he stopped and listened when he heard snatches of Elf-music these days, even if they gave him headaches and sent him sobbing back to his room, and he could not help a lingering glance at each decoration they passed.
Then he realized something dreadful: You were supposed to give everyone presents at Yule.
How was Sméagol supposed to know what everyone wanted? Maybe he should just give them all rocks and pebbles and shells. But- on the other hand- did that mean everyone had to give presents to Sméagol, too? Now- that was an interesting thought. It was such an interesting thought that Sméagol did not realize he was passing the door to a tavern until it had flung open and two Men stumbled out of it, laughing and heckling each other. Sméagol froze at the roar of voices from within and the rush of light. He usually avoided taverns- Pippin (or maybe Merry, or maybe both of them) had marked all the taverns on the map of Minas Tirith that had been in his book. There had been a note scrawled next to these markings indicating a hope that Sméagol might want to try a mug of ale sometime, like a proper hobbit. Sméagol instead used the markers as a guide to where he ought not to go. Taverns were too cheerful and too crowded and they were often open at night making noise when a fidgety old creature just wanted to tour the city in silence.
The Men emerging from the building fixed on him at once, all humped up in the stream of light as he was, with a shape like a confused boulder. "There he is," one of them cried. "The orc-killer. My old woman saw his trial, did you know this is a famed warrior, who fed on the flesh of orcs for years before any of us were born?"
"Is that so," said the other Man, "I did not know that when Men were giving their lives on the Pelennor fields, what we should have done was to send in children and dogs to sweep the whole host of Mordor away." They both smelled and sounded quite drunk.
Sméagol's guide was lingering up ahead. When Sméagol gave her an imploring look she beckoned him forward. He began to creep away from the doorway and towards the cool darkness.
"If only we had a captive orc here so that we could witness the lesson in warfare he could put on for us," one of the Men remarked.
Sméagol rounded on them with a hiss. "If ye had a goblin all locked up I wouldn't kill him. I am not a warrior, and I never said so, no never- I was an ordinary nasty killer. I am not anymore, and I wouldn't start up again just to prove I can to a pair of pretty ale-stewed piglets. I have had enough of blood and death!"
"Off with you," was the disgusted answer. Stress had thickened Sméagol's native proto-Stoorish accent to an impenetrable wall, and dialed up his tendency to squeak and hiss on top of that. It was entirely possible that his little speech had sounded, to the Man's ears, like nothing more than the chittering of a rat.
Sméagol scoffed and hurried away. On the way one of his stupid mittens slipped on the pavement and he nearly fell, catching himself with a cry. The drunken Men called an oath in his direction before turning away towards wherever they were headed. Sméagol joined up with his guide, who looked frightened and confused. Sméagol couldn't always read people's faces- for one thing, they were so high above him that he often couldn't see them clearly- but fear and confusion were familiar to him. Also, fear did have a little bit of an odor.
"They went away," said Sméagol.
"What did they want?"
"They thinks we lies and tells stories, gollum." They had not been the first to think so, and others had been more clear about it. "They had to fight and they thinks Sméagol pretends he fought when he didn't. I never said I was in battle, and everything I said I did, I really did do, but now that I admits it all- why, peoples don't believe us- gollum! I don't lie at all anymore and people believes me less than they ever did." He sounded calm- calm enough, anyway- but he was trembling. He thought the woman might not want to go anywhere with him now, but she continued to lead him onward. They passed several more cheerfully decorated buildings. Sméagol could not resist eyeing the little wreaths and things even though he was beginning to feel nauseated at the sight of them.
"What have you done that you must admit to, guide of the Ring-bearer?" the woman asked cautiously. "I have heard that you gave an account before the King, and that you confessed to certain crimes, which you had already served sentences for elsewhere; but I was not present. I- I know that you had a large part in the ending of the War of the Ring."
Sméagol considered what to say. He had made so many confessions and did not feel up to another one- perhaps the woman had glanced back at him and seen the weariness on his face, for she said: "Forgive me- I ought not ask."
"She may ask, she may ask what she'd like, but I- I do not want to answer."
"Very well. I am sorry. Ah- here is the shop. I think this is the most likely to have a suitable present. It sells all sorts of things, and you could find something for anyone." She held the door open while he crawled through it. "Do you need any more help?"
"No," he said, "can find our way back ourselfs. Thanks ye."
"You are most welcome." She hesitated, added: "And I thank you for what you've done for Gondor." She left in a hurry.
Sméagol had not intended to help Gondor, and he was never sure what to say when people were grateful to him for something he'd done more or less by accident. He was glad she'd left so quickly.
The shop was too brightly lit for his tastes and he had to squint and blink a lot, but there were so many interesting things in here! He soon forgot his uneasiness and his sore back and his aching hands. Often when he entered a store someone popped up right away to see what Sméagol was doing and why he was there and what he wanted but today the proprietor seemed to be occupied- he heard low voices from the back.
Good Sméagol doesn't eavesdrop, he reminded himself. Bad Sméagol had eavesdropped enough already. Instead he nosed through the trinkets and gadgets on display. Why, here was a big lovely shell! It was so big it must have come from the Sea!
Sméagol had forgotten for the moment that he was looking for something for someone else. He gingerly picked up the shell between his mittens and sniffed at it, turning it over and examining it for quite some time before putting it back and moving on.
He was reminded of what he was supposed to be doing when he came across a little carved figure of a dog. This would do perfectly, only- it was too small to be picked up by clumsy mittens. And it was wooden- too soft to be carried in Sméagol's mouth without picking up tooth marks. He scowled, and eased the mitten off of his left hand, using his teeth. He wouldn't be able to get it back on and his hand would get cold on the way home.
With his hand freed, he shoved the mitten into his pocket. The coat was covered in all sorts of pockets everywhere they could feasibly go, and was a dun gray color. It suited Sméagol very well, aside from all of the slippery little metal buttons that made it too difficult for him to take it on and off by himself.
He picked up the little figurine, shambling to the front of the store with it. The shopkeeper was in conversation with a big burly Man who had the look of a skin-changer, of one of the Bear-Men that Aragorn had met with by the River so long ago. Sméagol hung back, looking him over- big and strong, yes, gruff, yes- he didn't look like he would tolerate any nonsense. Of course Sméagol was not planning to do anything nonsensical, he was a paying customer, after all, and yet...
Before he could make up his mind to get their attention, he found that he had it already. The big Northerner had sharp eyes and had seen Sméagol. He did not seem to know what to make of him.
The shopkeeper turned. "Ah! Good evening," he said, getting quickly to his feet and turning to his companion. "My friend, this is Sméagol- I spoke of him to you some days ago."
"Yes," said the big Man, "the Ring-bearer's guide. Good evening to you, Sméagol."
Sméagol had never gotten used to being recognized by all and sundry. He never would. "Good evening," he said submissively. "Talking about us, are they?"
"I was telling my friend about the happenings at the end of the War, as he lives far away and has not visited here since before those times, and your name came up, as you were the only one of the Halflings to take up permanent residence here. But you approached me for a reason, I expect."
"Sméagol wants to buy something."
"Ah?" The shopkeeper hid his surprise poorly, but at least he was polite enough to try to hide it at all. "What would he like to buy?"
"This." He reached up and put the figurine on the counter. "Sméagol will pay! He has money, he does." He retrieved the pouch of coins. Pulling himself up on the edge of the counter so he could see the top of it, he poured out the coins.
"I see," said the shopkeeper. "Are these your wages?"
"No, Sméagol doesn't get any moneys," he replied in surprise. "Sméagol doesn't buy things for hisself, the King has someone buy it and that is Sméagol's wages. But this is not for us, it's for a friend, it is a- a birthday-present. We found these coinses, we did."
"You found these?" the shopkeeper asked, picking up a coin and studying it.
"Yes," said Sméagol. "Found them underground or in the sewer. No one dropped them, they doesn't belong to anybody. They are really Sméagol's! We did wash them, precious. They doesn't stink."
"That is well. Do you know how much you have?"
"Fifty-seven!" Sméagol pronounced. "Fifty-sseven coinses!"
"Do you know how much each is worth?"
Sméagol wondered if he should be alarmed by this question. "No... no, we don't... haven't used moneys in a long time. Didn't have any chance to. Then we didn't need to. But- there is so many coins, we has enough- don't we? Don't we? It's only a little trinket-"
"Yes, you have enough," said the shopkeeper. "These two coins will be enough, I think. But you should learn what you have and what it's worth so no one can cheat you. Would you like a lesson now?"
"No- busy busy," said Sméagol, "no time for a lesson." Most times when he was offered some kind of lesson he made time for it, but he didn't want to talk to the shopkeeper any longer. The Man must think him such a fool. He gathered up his coins in a hurry and turned away without his purchase.
"Sméagol! You have forgotten this," said the shopkeeper.
"O yes!" Sméagol was so relieved to have his errand done that after jamming the figurine into his pocket, he immediately left the shop before remembering that he was supposed to say 'thank you'.
Now, Sméagol really did have every intention of not eavesdropping on people anymore. But no person can resist noticing one's own name being said in earshot, and as soon as he had gotten through the doorway he heard: "So that is Sméagol! A wretched creature."
"Indeed."
"What were the coins?"
"Two tharni."
"I would not have charged him money."
"I almost did not, but Halflings have their pride as Men do, and- I thought I would sorely wound him if I tried to give him that carving for free. He is not a beggar."
Sméagol had heard enough- he turned away and plodded towards home. His face was still hot. As he frequently was, he was in two minds- one snarled that he should get to have things for free, he'd thrown the Precious away for these people, and they shouldn't forget it- the other mind saw Sméagol as a tiny, pitiful broken thing and knew everyone else did too and always would and- and why hadn't he done differently? Why hadn't he lived out a quiet life as a fisherman along the River and died either of old age or because he'd cheated the wrong person at the market and been knifed quickly and neatly for it- and never seen orc-blades or heard Ringwraith-screams or padded through this gigantic gleaming city?
But then it would seem a bit of a shame to never see the City or meet the Master or go on missions with the Captain-General of Gondor. Anyway it couldn't be helped now, and Sméagol couldn't go back and change things- this was what he had ended up as and he must make the best of it. And he was a bit more capable than he looked. He wasn't always hobbled by cold and mittens.
This was why he shouldn't listen in on people!
It had been a long time since he'd gotten himself lost when going about in the City, but he still feared it, and was relieved when he had passed by the guard back into the Sixth Circle and knew just where he was. He headed towards his room at first, but then he heard sounds from the houndmaster's quarters and turned that way.
When he approached, Eardwulf was standing in front of a younger Man who held a dog on a leash. Eardwulf was speaking to him, but as soon as Sméagol got close enough to make out the words, the dog began barking, interrupting the talk.
"Calm! Calm!" the young Man cried, leaning down and tugging on the leash. "Hold!"
Eardwulf said nothing, it seemed to be understood without words that such behavior was not tolerated in his protege's animals. The dog quieted, sniffing the air, its eyes sharp.
"I know not what the trouble is-" the trainee blustered. "I have only seen him act this way when he scented the creature Sméagol!"
"Ah. We will need to teach him to tolerate the creature," said Eardwulf.
Said creature, on a whim, slipped underneath a nearby ledge and huddled in the shadows instead of going closer.
Soon, Eardwulf's heavy footsteps crunched over to him. From his vantage point Sméagol could see his legs starting to bend into a crouch. Before Eardwulf could see him, Sméagol slipped around behind him and ducked behind a crate.
Eardwulf approached the new hiding place. Sméagol darted back into the other one.
Eardwulf paused a moment. He seemed to be trying to figure out the strategy. Sméagol slowly reached out and patted the Man's leg.
"There you are," said Eardwulf.
"Here we is, here's Sméagol," he hummed, circling Eardwulf's ankles.
"I'm surprised to see you out so early," Eardwulf said.
"We went out, yes we did. Went out shopping!"
"I see. Well-"
The dog started barking. Sméagol froze. The dog quieted at a command from its trainer.
"Have you concluded your shopping, I hope?" Eardwulf asked. "I might take you back to your room?"
It was a very polite command rather than a request. "O yes," said Sméagol. He didn't like that dog any more than it liked him.
Eardwulf leaned down and offered his arms. Sméagol scrambled into them. At the feel of the Man's warmth, he realized how chilled he'd become. The years of being comfortable in a frigid underground lake were well over, and he'd begun to feel the cold badly, which did not seem fair, because he felt the heat badly too.
"I am taking the little one back to his quarters- wait here for my return," said Eardwulf, and he strode briskly towards Sméagol's cellar room.
"But whatever was Sméagol buying?" he asked, tugging at Eardwulf's collar with his un-mittened hand. "He has foods and clotheses, yes, and even papers to write on, doesn't need anything. What would he be buying things for?"
"I know not. Whatever was Sméagol buying?"
By way of answer he retrieved the little figurine from his pocket. "This!"
"How nice. You purchased it?"
"Yes! Didn't find it, we bought it, we did! Bought it special, went all the way to the shops, yes yes! All the way there and back again, and got up early to go before they closed up, and it is for Eardwulf's birthday."
"My birthday?" said Eardwulf.
"Yes, yes, it is a hound."
"Who told you it was my birthday?"
He looked surprised. It was hard to make Eardwulf look surprised- and Sméagol had managed it. He wriggled with glee. "No one told us! We heard- by accident. Not listening on purpose, no, never! We heard them saying it was tomorrow- yesterday. Or- the day before- it does not matter, that is your present, I bought it." It would not occur to him until later that a birthday present was usually reserved for the actual day. "No, they did not tell us, so we almost did not know and then it would seem as if we had forgotten it, and that would not be nice. They should tells us these things."
"You bought this- in the shops?" Eardwulf asked. "You took it upon yourself to go all the way there and buy this? No one brought you there?"
"Went ourselfs," said Sméagol. "Sméagol has money. Found his money. It is not stolen."
"For my birthday," said Eardwulf. He went very quiet, turning the little figurine over in his hand.
"He likes dogs," Sméagol said, when the silence dragged on.
"I do. I like this very much. Well. Thank you." The Man cleared his throat a few times- maybe he was cold too.
Sméagol snuggled into Eardwulf's soft, cozy, doggy-smelling cloak. He coughed a little and Eardwulf pulled a fold of the cloak around his body. "You feel like ice," the Man said. "You went all the way to the shops-" He broke off.
"What is the matter?"
"Nothing. I'll take you back. In future- if you wish to purchase something, someone can take you."
"I couldn't go with you," he cried, scandalized. "It is your present. It is secret."
"Very well. Not I," said Eardwulf. "But another. Faelon, perhaps."
"But he might tell!"
"Not if you ask him not to."
"Perhaps. Sméagol will have to go back out. Yuletime is coming." He shuddered.
"Yule?"
"Have to buy presentses," Sméagol complained. "For everyone. Boromir too, and whatever will we gets him? He is a Lord and he is very rich!" His eyes grew round. "Does the King think we are giving him a present too? Ach! What does he want?"
When Eardwulf did not reply after a moment, Sméagol looked up into his face and found him looking flummoxed.
"He does not know what the King wants for Yule either, my precious," he concluded. "Maybe we can sends presents to the little orcses. We know what they likes, chew-toys, or something like that. They must be walking by now. They was getting so big when they left."
"I have heard that the Lord Boromir made you an offer to accompany him on his planned springtime visit to the Shire. I believe he was planning to stop by the Greenwood on the way- perhaps you might see the young orcs then."
"Perhaps. Perhaps." That would mean seeing the Elves that were minding them. "It's a long way, it is. Don't like long trips."
"I suppose not. You seem very fatigued after you go out of the City to do work," Eardwulf said. "I should like you to know that you are allowed to decline work at any time if it is too strenuous." They had now reached the building Sméagol was housed in and were on the stairs down to the cellar.
"Yes, yes. Does he think the orcs will know Sméagol again? Their eyes was open before they left. They seemed to know me." They had started making 'gollum' sounds whenever he turned up, unfortunately.
"You would be difficult to forget," said Eardwulf.
They had reached the guard, who nodded to both of them politely as they passed. And now they were in Sméagol's nice cozy room. Eardwulf paused to light the candle on the wall, as Sméagol obligingly clung to his left arm to free his right. Then Eardwulf took a few paces forward and set Sméagol down on the edge of the bed. "Do you need your coat to be unbuttoned?"
"Yes, we does." Sméagol pulled off the mitten he was still wearing and flicked it into the corner of the room.
"I had a message for you, while I am here," said Eardwulf, as he began to undo the buttons. Sméagol held very still so that he would not accidentally be poked or prodded. "Your presence has been requested just before dawn."
"Why?"
"You're chilled," said Eardwulf, as his fingers brushed Sméagol's chest.
"Always," Sméagol laughed. "Cold-hearted Sméagol." He rubbed his bare hands together- it was a sweet feeling to have them both out in the open air again. But they were sore and cold- even the one he hadn't taken the mitten off of had gotten wet through and ached. "Why is they asking for us?" he asked, and licked his fingers, wishing he had a warmer tongue.
"Do not lick," the Man said firmly. "You will make your hands more raw than they are already."
Sméagol grumbled but took his hand from his mouth.
"One of Lord Faramir's men has some questions for you. I wasn't told exactly which questions," said Eardwulf. "The messenger was in a hurry."
Faramir's men, eh? Then it was probably about the geography of Mordor. Usually when he was summoned by anyone other than Boromir- who had the patience to listen to long stories about Goblin-town and the knowhow to translate them into useful information- it was because someone had discovered evidence of more dungeons, or more traps, or more tunnels, and they wanted to know if Sméagol had anything to say about it- as he'd explored parts of that place Men could not get to. He often had nothing useful to say but they kept asking just in case- since there was no such thing as being 'too careful' in the Black Lands. Sméagol found these talks upsetting. "But they don't need us until later," he said quietly.
"No. I asked about that- you aren't needed until just before dawn, so for most of the night your time will be your own- but they will expect you to be clean and neatly dressed, so someone will come in to assist you a while before the meeting." He had finished unbuttoning the coat. Sméagol shrugged out of it and kicked off his boots.
Eardwulf stood. "I have never known you to go the length of time it takes to walk to the shops and back without becoming hungry."
"O no, never."
"I will go and tell someone to bring you something to eat and drink, and balm for your hands as well."
"Sss. He puts something in it to make it taste nasty."
"The balm tastes nasty on its own- which I find fortunate. It does you no good to lick it off of your skin as soon as it's applied. Do you need anything else?"
"No, not now, that will do nicely. Good night to him, and a happy birthday too."
"Thank you," said Eardwulf softly, leaving the room and shutting the door.
Sméagol flopped down on the bed and burrowed into the covers, sighing. To think that he'd once thought he would rather sleep on rocks! "It's good to be home, it is," he said to himself. And his errand had been such a success!
He lay there a moment, not thinking, simply enjoying the sensation of allowing his decrepit body to rest somewhere soft. His shoulder was sore- he had pulled it a week or so ago, checking an orc-tunnel for any hidden survivors, and he had thought it was better- but not better enough to stand as much scurrying and creeping as he'd been doing. And he hadn't found anything interesting in that tunnel, either- though that was likely for the best.
After a while he grew bored of rest, and remembered that he had intended to write to Frodo. Fortunately it was his right shoulder that was aching and not the one attached to his writing arm.
He went to his table and, as he did almost every day, picked up a sheaf of papers- the notes that had been left behind for him when the hobbits and Gandalf had left Gondor. He thumbed through the papers, which were deteriorating from being held in Sméagol's damp hands- the text was getting smudged and everything. He had memorized most of them, but perhaps he would copy them out, too. At least he would copy out Gandalf's letter, which was too confusing to memorize. He wished he had not wasted so much time being snippy to Gandalf and had asked him more questions. The wizard had left such a long note and it had given Sméagol even more things to wonder about!
He had been intending to read Frodo's letter in hopes it would give him some idea of what to write to him- but here was Gandalf's and he could not resist puzzling over it a little whenever he saw it. For the moment, instead of reading the whole long thing, he skipped to the end, where it said:
P.S.: As I said, I truly believe that I will never see you again. But it occurs to me that, perhaps, you of all people ought to have taught me not to say such things in haste. For as you have discovered, forever is a long time. A very long time, for anyone. And no one should make promises he cannot keep. So I will allow that I may be wrong. And if I do see you, no matter how surprised I am, and no matter what my surprise may drive me to say to you when I see you, know that I will be glad that you made it. For I would never, ever have rejoiced in your death.
Sméagol musingly tapped on the paper. "He explains things as nicely as he ever did, my precious," he said to himself. "But he's right about one thing, isn't he? Forever is a long time. Yes, yes it is." He looked off into space, thoughtful, and if anyone had been alive who knew the face of Sméagol's grandmother, that person could, for a fleeting moment, have mistaken the old Halfling for the twin brother of the village matriarch who'd raised him.
The End