Chapter 8: Gollum Escapes

Part Two

I had then made up my mind that men were my natural enemies and that I must defend myself. Of course it is very different here, but who knows how long it will last? I wish I could think about things as you do; but I can't, after all I have gone through.

- Anna Sewell, Black Beauty

You people with hearts have something to guide you, and need never do wrong; but I have no heart, and so I must be very careful.

- L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

A three-year-old fisherfolk child ought to be talking, but Sméagol said nothing for a good bit after he had been found. He slowly grew to accept touch, and he loved baths, and he loved food, and he loved pulling things off of desks and yanking at earrings and necklaces, oh the joys of small children.

He ran shrieking and crying at any sight of fire. There were no injuries on his small body, aside from light scratches and bruises that he could easily have picked up by wandering around in the woods the way he'd been when his cousins had found him. He had not been burned. Perhaps he had seen something a child was better off not seeing.

When he did start to talk, his first word was 'Why'. This may have been because he was so often addressed with 'Why'.

"Why did you chew on Gran's papers, Sméagol?"

"Why did you throw your toys in the latrine, Sméagol?"

"Why did you bites your cousin, Sméagol?"

"Why o why did you try to eat that, Sméagol?"

He got a lot of use out of the word 'Why'. He would point to people doing things.

"Why?"

The explanation would only be the beginning.

"I am making dinner."

"Why?"

"So we can eats, love."

"Why?"

"Ain't you hungry? I thinks you are."

"Why?"

"You're always hungry, aren't you?"

"Why?"

"I don't know," Nettle would say, "and I don't know why I'm standing here explaining myself to you. Praps I'll ask you some riddles, Sméagol, my polliwog, and then it will be my turn to make you pulls your hair out tryin' to answer." He had such silky soft hair.

For quite a long time, 'Why' was the only word he seemed to feel he needed. He would also use it to forestall criticism. Nettle would catch him about to do something he shouldn't, and he would stop and feign a ridiculous look of surprise.

"Why?" he would ask.

"You knows why," Nettle scolded him.

Then came the day when he added two other words: 'How', and 'no'. Again, he heard them both frequently.

"How did you get that, Sméagol?"

"How did you think that was going to work, you daft boy?"

"How does you fits all that food, Sméagol?"

"How many times do you think I'm going to keeps giving you this toy back if you're just going to throw it again?"

'No' should be obvious.

He could combine 'Why' and 'How'.

"Why?"

"I'm writing some notes."

"How?"

"With a pencil."

"Why?"

"The pencil makes marks."

"How?"

"It just does, Sméagol, play with your ducky."

"No! How?"

Nettle had looked at the pencil. She had realized in horror that she did not quite know how it worked, not exactly. "It smears stuff on the paper, it does..."

"How?"

"Does Sméagol want to learn a riddle?"

"No! How?"

"It just works, it does," she had fumed. "I'll box your ears for you if you don't stop." She never actually had boxed his ears.

He had looked at her suspiciously. And of course he asked: "Why?"

The ''Why' and 'How' only stopped when he slept. He curled up like a kitten and dropped off for a few hours at a time and then he sat up and stared at her and started asking 'Why'.

When he was four Sméagol abruptly changed from this mode of speech to speaking surprisingly articulate complete sentences. Now he could ask "What is that?" and "Where is Déagol?" and "Where did that come from?" and "Where is my ducky?" and "When can I goes swimming?" and "Where does people go when they sleeps?" and "When can I learn to catch fishes?" and "How does that work?" and "Why is Déagol so mad at me?"

"You bit him."

"He was mean."

"He won't want to play with you if you bite him."

"He was mean, he was mean!" And he would weep stormily.

He was warm and soft when she held him on her lap and rocked him. By the time he was nine, he was a fine big lad and a little too heavy to pull into her lap- heavy and also too old for such things and terribly annoyed by them. He was also too big by then to sit on her desk and stare at what she was writing, but he did it anyway.

Sméagol had a rare quality for a boy. Despite the impression given by his endless questions, he knew when to shut his yap. One day, after a frustrating hour of bargaining with a passing trader, after which she managed to get a discount on building materials for the clan but not the discount she wanted, Nettle turned and saw him just sitting there silently on the grass.

"Learned some new curse words, today, I suppose you did," she said in frustration.

"O, I knew them all," he dismissed.

When tales were told around the campfire, Sméagol managed to be forgotten and silent so that no one chased him off when things turned bawdy or gory and the children were shuffled away. Then he would enjoy some brief, rare popularity the next day, repeating what he'd heard. He had an uncanny memory for tales, for good or for ill- and also riddles.

Nettle taught him to read and taught him the genealogies and all of the old stories she knew. After he learned to write he went through a phase where he walked around the village with his little slate, writing down things people did. He would come back in the evening and read it all off to her.

"Aunt Petunia. Cheated Aunt Iris out of one penny. Saw her drop it and she didn't say nothing. Just picked it up. That was not nice. She picked it up before I could. Not nice at all."

Nettle politely asked him to stop after the fifth day of this.

When Sméagol was sixteen years old he came in one day and said: "I caught a fish with my bare hands."

"You never," she told him.

"I did, I did!"

"Where is it, then?"

He glowered and looked down. "Dropped it."

His hands were wet, but they often were. He was constantly thinking he saw something of interest in the River or in a pond or puddle, and scrabbling for it.

"Déagol saw it," he grumbled.

Later, she asked Déagol if he had seen this.

"He never," said Déagol with the faintly affronted air he often had. Sméagol squealed in rage and would have punched him if not hauled away.

Later, one of the girls of the village ran up to Nettle and tugged at her skirt. "Sméagol grabbed a fish out of the water," she whined. "He threw it at me. Nasty Sméagol!"

Nettle found her grandson sitting with a flayed raw fish. He was sucking his fingers. He looked up and flinched and blushed bright red.

"Boy," said Nettle. "That fish isn't cooked."

"O, I know it isn't," he said, "I just caught it. But praps you don't believe that."

"Fire is not an orc, it isn't. Won't jump out of its pit and throttle you."

"Plenty of peoples eat raw fish, Gran."

"Not in my village," she said. "Does you like it that way?"

He dropped his eyes in a rare show of humility. "No, it's awful, it is," he mumbled. "But I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry. Here, I'll cook that for you, you daft lad. What's left of it."

He would also eat unripe berries, eggs from trees, and things off of the top of rubbish piles if he thought they were fresh enough- which was not unusual behavior for a growing boy that thought he was invincible to food poisoning, but a bit unseemly for one under the direct tutelage of the matriarch. (Although when he brought home eggs to share, she always accepted one.) Despite these omnivorous habits he was on the thin side for a fisherfolk, but he was the tallest in the village! Why, when Men came by, Sméagol often reached all the way up to their hips, he did. Or nearly to their hips, anyway. He was fast, too. Also, he and Déagol got up to a little racket where they'd go up to outsiders and Déagol would appear to bully skinny, whinging Sméagol into an arm wrestling contest. Taking bets, of course.

As soon as the hands were clasped Sméagol would become entirely calm and slowly, inexorably force a much thicker arm than his own down onto the table. He and Déagol would collect the money.

"He's stronger than he looks, is Sméagol," Déagol would smirk. "Meaner than he looks, is Sméagol."

"Better hearing than you'd think, has Sméagol," that worthy personage would say with a glare.

He and Déagol had many ridiculous fights that occasionally turned physical. They were never about money or girls or even food. Despite both being acquisitive little guttersnipes, they somehow managed to keep a truce where they shared everything. (Except girls- Sméagol became quiet and awkward around them- he would glance shiftily around the room and then offer to take them into his underground bedroom and show them his collection of fish bones, or dead bugs. Or sharp things. They would decline.)

No, the fights were about 'I put my fishing rod down and Déagol took it and threw it in the River' or 'Déagol borrowed my hat and he did something with it and it smells foul' or 'Déagol cheated at riddles and won't admit it'. (This sounded very much as if one person was consistently the one deciding he was aggrieved enough to start up a fight, but in the interest of fairness: Déagol clearly found it funny when his dramatic cousin lost his temper and sometimes he would make sure it happened, no matter the consequences.) Sméagol would scream as if he was being murdered and robbed from and set on fire, while wrestling Déagol into submission, until someone separated them or Déagol chased off his attacker by spitting in his eye.

"What got into you?" Gran fumed one time after a particularly vicious fight.

"He wants to go away on an adventure," Sméagol barked. "I never heard anything so stupid! Goblins and robbers and monsters and who knows what else out there."

"You don't wants to leave, eh?" He was so inquisitive and he was always trying to dig things up and find things in pools and ditches. She had feared her moody, energetic grandbaby would in fact one day go looking for new places to dig.

"No," he had scoffed. "What's wrong with our village, eh, we have the River, and we have fish, and I will stay right here, yes-" with an expressive sweep of his arm- "-and listen to tales about people meeting bad ends instead of going off to die in a hole myself. I know what they says about me, but I am not a fool, no." His tone was disgusted. "My parents thought they could leave. And where are they now, where are they? Not here."

"Might have to check if the fish are flying and the birds swimming, my otter-lad," she said, "hearin' you talk sense for once. It's not natural, no."

He had gone off to his room with a snort.

One day, Iris and Petunia walked into the smial when Sméagol was off terrorizing his cousin somewhere.

"Right, Mam." Iris was businesslike and brisk. "Me'n Pet here are wanting to know which of us two you're naming successor."

"Calling me old, she is," Nettle cackled. "That may not be so good for your health."

"O," said Pet, "rainy season is comin' and we may all drown, may as well get affairs sorted first."

"And you think you two are my choices, do you?"

Iris folded her arms over her chest. "Who else?" Her eyes were sharp.

Nettle leaned back in her chair. "I don't know," she said. "We need a lore-master, with a sharp memory..." She glanced at Pet. "Someone good at reckoning budgets." Petunia had gone to market on Nettle's behalf two summers ago and overpaid for some roofing materials. She had not been forgiven.

"If you picks that Sméagol," said Iris, "I am moving out."

They thought he was in the running?

Sméagol had begun to claim lately that people in the village thought he was Nettle's favorite and her pick for successor, and they were mean to him over it. Sméagol came up with a lot of reasons why people were mean to him, and she always clucked and told him he was nearly of age now and a fine big lad and surely he could look after himself. And he was meaner than anyone who might be teasing him, at that. But it seemed that this time he was correct about why he wasn't a favorite.

Of course... he might have been the one to start the rumors. Him or that Déagol he hauled about with him everywhere. However it had come about, Iris and Petunia looked furious.

"Sméagol's a sharp lad," she said, instead of putting their fears to rest.

"He's the most insufferable little snapper I've ever met, Mam," said Pet. "And he's bad with money, too."

"A good woman will settle him down," said Nettle.

"Who would have him, Mam?!"

Nettle looked around the hall, scratching her chin. "Maybe none, but they'd put up with him for this smial and the chance to lord it over this village, I guess. The both of you seem to want it badly enough."

Iris and Petunia both walked out without a word. Good.

Sméagol had no glimmer of leadership skills whatsoever. And yet... he had a certain quality... perhaps he reminded Nettle of herself, just a little. But she did not really plan to name him as successor. She just wanted to give those two something to think about in exchange for getting so up in airs.

Then again... she didn't know if there was a better choice. A sharp lad, was Sméagol, sharper than he looked. Stronger than he looked.

Meaner than he looked, too. And in a rough old world like this one, was that always such a bad thing?

Gollum had been unconscious when taken to his current location, and he didn't know where he was or how to get from where he was to anywhere else he might want to be. This did not daunt him; he did not even think of it as an obstacle- he was used to figuring out how to find things all by himself. He had had to find his way all through Mirkwood, he had had to find his way through Lake-town, and then- and then South. And back out of that place- and back in again, right to the steaming heart of it, this time with baggage, two soft squeezable little hobbits that seemed so clumsy and noisy! But not noisy like Men, no. Not nearly so bad as that.

The first task he faced was to get out of the city.

He had been out and about enough, and he had heard enough, to know that he was indeed in a city. Beyond that he knew little. It seemed to be a big city, and if it had lords and princes and Kings and suchlike running about in it, it was an important city. The guesthouses had guards, and the people were clean and well-dressed and well-fed. And since the whole of the world had been embroiled in war not so long ago, the people were probably a bit nervous. What was more, there were people here that knew him, too many people by half. He would have to be quiet and careful. But of course that had never changed.

He was well able to evade the patrolling guards near the guest house by staying in darkness and silence, but he was soon forced to confront the fact that he was slower than he had been previously. He was still recuperating, but he also suspected that when the malice and the hideous pull of the Ring had drained from his body like the matter running out of an abscess, something else had gone with it. Not his sharp senses, thankfully, but something else. He tolerated warmth and soft beds entirely too well, and he had managed to eat cooked meat and keep it down. What else had changed?

Happily it was still not difficult for him to slip out of sight until he found a big wall, and from the top of the wall survey the city.

It was enormous. Enormous! And why were there so many walls? One, two, three...

He drew a deep, sharp breath, despite his desire not to make noise. A city ringed by walls! He turned, trembling, to look over his shoulder, and saw what he had not seen before, soaring over another wall far behind- the high tower. It must be Minas Anor, he thought. The Tower of the Sun. Anárion's city...

It must be! In his youth he had naturally thought the tales of this place a little exaggerated, even as a little scrap of a thing, to which the rather pitiful little village that Gran brought him to on trading errands looked enormous. As a moody tweenager and a moodier adult he had been even more cynical. The Men built a big city with white walls out of a rock, eh? A slightly taller grain silo than usual, more like.

He had been incorrect. It was in fact very impressive, even when compared to the structures of Mordor, or perhaps moreso, since this was what it had once been still, and not warped out of shape like its sister. In fact, this city and Minas Morgul had about the same faint, sick resemblance as the faint, sick resemblance between Pippin Took and Gollum.

And to think that one of the fisher-folk of the Anduin could see it, one of Nettle's grandchildren...

That is not so, he remembered, Sméagol is nobody's anymore, because he was so nasty, and all of them are gone. I am here alone, and I represent no one, and I will tell no one about it. That is how it's been for a long, long time, and that is how it will be until I too am gone at last.

He turned back to look out over the city, shaking his head at its size and muttering darkly. On the horizon, he saw a shadow. The world narrowed around it to a single point, and there was only the shadow, there was only the scent of ash and death, there was only heat and thirst and wracking hunger and agony filling his long, sensitive fingers. These impressions filled his mind so that he did not hear that he was speaking.

"I can't find it," he whimpered, he begged. "I will never find it. It is not to be found, I don't have it- don't hurt me- I can't. It is, it is gone. The hobbits took it. It is gone. Gone forever!" His voice rose and he shook his fist. "Not for you! Never, NEVER for you! You are gone!"

He breathed loud, harsh breaths, and spat into the darkness. His fingers hooked. If the wall had been soft enough to yield to his nails he would have scored deep lines into it.

I don't want to go back there, he thought. But he wouldn't have to go all the way in, into the heart of thirst and hunger and death. Judging from the Men's maps the den he was looking for would have an entrance on the other side of the mountains. But he could not stir himself to go any closer to that shadow until he heard a voice behind him-

"What was that yelling?"

Guards.

Gollum hopped over the wall and scaled it as quietly as he could. He had been quick enough- he was not discovered, despite his outburst.

The Men's foolish insistence on sleeping through the lovely cool night served him well, for there were few people to avoid at this hour. He did not need to waste time looking for gates, for he could go up one side of a wall and down another, and he somewhat enjoyed the exercise of climbing. He had not realized how much time he spent climbing and jumping and scurrying until he abruptly found himself contained to one room, with not a lot of climbable furniture in it. But there was so much city! And he must be swift to vanish into it, for his disappearance would be discovered. Perhaps soon. The Men brought him water frequently, and would see that he was gone. For that matter he was already getting thirsty. And he'd miss supper. And he'd miss having a bath.

The Men will make us fat and stupid, he told himself. Imagine sitting in a cube when we can goes where we want, because we'll miss our bath! But there were no rivers or ponds or lakes near enough to get to without at least another day's walking, or he would have seen or smelled them by now. There were other sources of water in a city, but not enough for his liking- he would become awfully dry and dusty.

In a way it was a good thing that the Men knew he went about in the gardens sometimes. They would not immediately be alarmed to find him missing from his room, and would, with luck, not realize he'd gone farther afield than usual until it was too late to find him.

He managed to make it all the way to the next city wall before the sky began to lighten in the east. He might have gone farther, but the layout of the city baffled him. It was too neat. It was too proper. Where were the random pits of rubble where orcs had decided to tear down a building, or the bits where someone had decided a different hill caught his fancy than the one he had been told he may build on? Sméagol remembered well the days when Gran would have to tear into some fool who'd decided to liberally interpret her village planning (usually very loudly and at times when Sméagol was trying to read in the other room). Her ideas were brilliant, but people would decide they liked the view somewhere else and change plans on a whim. Such things happened. But not here. He ended up getting confused by the order of it all more than once, circling a building in bewilderment and finding, suddenly, that he was too close to voices and had to double back.

He heard voices now. Too close to flee.

He stepped into the shadows, tugged his hood over his face and stood upright, leaning against the wall. Sometimes in the past he had been mistaken for a child by those who had not seen his face- although it was better for him not to be seen at all.

A group of young Man-folk walked by, males and females, with excited faces. "I did see him," one was insisting. She was wearing a strong perfume; Gollum bared his teeth and stuck his tongue out. "He was no taller than my shoulder, but he was quite dashing, really."

"Are you thinking of marrying a perian?" another teased. "I've heard one of them is a poet."

"Of course not, but if I were to marry one it would be the little shy one."

"Pah! I would have the Ringbearer or none of them."

The group passed by Gollum, but then they stopped just on the other side of him. He swore internally.

"Did you hear about the monster the Ringbearer brought with him to Mordor?" one was whispering.

"No."

"I heard he rode it up the mountain, with his servant sitting behind him. It was like the winged beasts of the Nazgul, but pony-sized. And then when it had gotten him up the mountain it attacked him- but then the Ringbearer commanded it to take the Ring and fly into the flames with it- and it did!"

"I've heard no such thing."

"I heard something else," another said.

"That's probably nonsense too."

"I haven't told you yet! I heard the Ringbearer enslaved an Orc with the Ring, and he made it take him to the top of the mountain, but then the Orc bit the Ring off of his finger to try to get it back to the Dark Lord, but then his servant threw the Orc into the volcano."

"That didn't happen. He has ten fingers. I saw him at the market."

"You did not see him! He's always guarded."

"He was there with guards! He's not locked in the guest house."

"I heard the monster was some kind of frog that cries a lot. Someone told me he'd fed it."

"Fed it?"

"Yes, he said the Ringbearer brought it back with him, and now it's staying in a guest house and it eats raw meat, and it stays in the dark all the time and screams if you open a window to let in the sunlight, and if you bring it water to splash in it'll tell you a riddle. I am certain he invented all of it. He thinks he's quite special now he's an errand boy in the palace. But, as we were telling absurd tales..."

Gollum stepped out into the street behind them. "There was no monster," he said shrilly, "no! No, no- don't talk about things you know nothing about- it is silly! Foolish!"

"I'm sorry?" one of the teens said, turning to blink at him, and another said: "Who are you?"

Gollum had no answer. How could he answer? What would he say? He squirmed, and said gollum in his throat, and turned on his heel to scurry away. He did not know what had possessed him to say what he had, and his face was hot. The young ones had been so lively and bright-eyed, like tall hobbits- not so long ago he would have seen them only as food.

Why does it matter if they talk about me? he thought. And what does it matter if they call me monster- I have been one a long time, yes, it is too late to bother about it now, what am I to do about it? But it is not nice to gossip about me. They don't know what I am. They doesn't even know I exist- or they didn't before we pestered them, precious- that was silly. I don't know why I spoke to them like that- it was foolish of us, yes foolish! Why- they weren't really doing anything wrong. Ach! Yes they were! They are nasty rude dirty children, all of them!

He shuddered. They think I attacked the nice Master. I did. I would have bitten him if I had to! To take Precious away. I pulled at his hand very hard. Did I hurt him? I must have. We had such a fight!

He stopped, blinking furiously and rubbing at his eyes, although often he did not even notice or care when he wept. It bothered him to think about harming Frodo, because he'd come so close to killing him. He had killed before. And for what? For a circle of gold that had made him a monster-

O but I miss it, he thought with a stab, almost a physical pain- his hand went to his heart.

He looked around, blinking. He had gotten distracted, and now he was out in the open- he stepped into the shadows.

What if one of the young Men told about having seen him? He considered this, and decided there was not much risk from it- first, they had not known what he was or that anyone should be told at all, so at the worst they would only say they met someone odd in the street. Perhaps the description they gave would be recognized, but by the time such a thing happened Gollum would be too far away for it to matter. He was already too far away to be easy to find. And they would not know whom to tell about him, and might not even be allowed to speak to that person if they did. Their kind had so many rules about who was allowed to speak to whom!

Something moved up ahead. Gollum froze.

Eyes glinted green out of the dark, reflecting the gleam in his own eyes- a cat, it was. She looked back at him, also frozen and watchful. She was thinking she might have seen a predator, no doubt, and indeed she had; Gollum was rather fond of cat meat, which he thought was like orcflesh- savory and tangy- but lighter in taste. Cats that had a diet of fish were especially nice.

Being clawed and bitten was not nice, and a cat was hard to take by surprise. This one had already seen him. Then, too, cats were often owned by Men. Gollum didn't want to cause any trouble with the residents of the city, and killing a prized animal was a quick way to make enemies.

But we are peckish, he thought, watching the cat. We've missed our supper. 

She made up his mind about him before he made up his mind about her, and trotted away with her head down.

Cats were good at finding shelter and hiding places. Wherever this one was going, she might lead him somewhere nice, somewhere he could hide from the fast-approaching dawn and the waking city, perhaps- he already heard more voices in the distance.

Gollum slunk after the cat, hanging back in case she was going to a home with Men in it. She led him to a dark house, where she ducked under a door and disappeared.

Gollum made a quick tour of the outside of the structure, and found that all the windows were boarded, and so were the doors. An abandoned house- cities at war had many of them, yes.

Such prize habitats were often already occupied when he found them. If a cat was making its home in this one, though, there was likely nothing any bigger than that inside, unless perhaps there was a human owner. He squeezed his way through the entrance she'd used. It was a tight fit- he had broader shoulders than a cat did- but he managed. It helped to be a bit slimy.

Inside he made a cautious tour. There were two rooms, and he found no orcs or vagrants, though a blanket in a corner suggested that a Man had been there- but he was gone, the scent was old.

The scent of mice was fresh. Oh yes! And he heard scratching.

The cat was here too, huddled in a corner and staring at him. Gollum watched her from the corner of his eye, crouching low to the ground.

She began to growl. Gollum backed away. He was about a third again as large as the cat, and in pretty good condition. He would win a fight, but at the cost of being raked and bitten, no doubt! 

Instead of tangling with the cat, he went into the other room and went after the mice.  

Mice were tasty treats, and though they could bite they were easy enough prey for someone who getting back into things. He grabbed them by the tails and, with a practiced flick of the wrist, slammed them against the wall to kill them quick before they could double around and bite him and probably before they even knew they'd been picked up. He shoved the bodies into his pockets. Once he had cleared out as many mice as could be found and fished out of their hiding places by nimble fingers, he sat down in the center of the room and began to eat what he'd caught. He'd leave one or two in his pockets for later, perhaps, although fresh meat did not stay edible for too long after it was killed.

The cat had appeared in the doorway leading to the other room, and she stared at him resentfully. He was no doubt eating what she had intended to be her dinner.

"That is too bad for her, my precious, too bad," Gollum said to himself. "Ss, ss. She is lucky! She might have been dinner herself!" He considered the cat. She was small, hungry and angry, a weak little creature who was prey as well as predator. Her eyes shone green at him.

He tossed one of the mice in her direction. She pounced on it.

"It is already dead, stupid thing!" Gollum said, shaking his head. The cat picked the mouse up in her mouth and turned away, casting apprehensive looks over her shoulder at him. She disappeared into the other room.

Gollum took another mouse out of his pocket and bit off its head. It was scrumptiously crunchable, all the moreso because he'd caught it himself instead of having to wait for someone to decide to bring him something. He was an expert hunter! Even Sam knew it, he had wanted Gollum to catch dinner when there was none.

In the end he ate all of the mice and did not leave any for later. The next order of business was to find somewhere to hide- he wasn't about to sleep in the open on the floor. A large cabinet in the corner seemed like an ideal place. It was empty- whoever had left here had apparently been able to take the valuables but not the furniture. The furniture had been spoiled by mice and clawed by the cat and the inside of the cabinet would no doubt be slimy after Gollum rested in it all day.

"That is too bad, too bad," he murmured to himself, slurring slightly from drowsiness- he had gotten out of the practice of running about all day, "sscampering all about, wearing ourselfs to the bone, poor Sméagol, he's sleepy." He closed the cabinet doors most of the way, leaving a crack he could surveil the room from, and curled up to sleep.

Something was wrong- the cabinet was too warm, and too soft, and something in it was thrumming! And it smelled like- like cat.

Gollum squinted into the darkness. He was lying tightly curled on his side. A ball of fur was tucked up against his back and it was purring. "Ach!" he said, startling the cat awake. "No. No, no, no!" He took the cat by the scruff of the neck, picked her up, set her outside of the cabinet and closed the door on her before she could either come back in or get angry and scratch him. He could have killed her instead of just putting her out, but he was not hungry at the moment.

"If it tries that again," he hissed, "we will eats it." He lay back down, but he was annoyed and even offended, yes, though he could not have begun to explain why, and it took a while for him to calm down enough to go back to sleep.

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