Chapter 6: Sméagol Catches a Cold

The trees were thinning ahead, yes, definitely thinning and letting in more light from the East. Sméagol lived in a city named for the Sun and now he was going to the place She woke every day. His whole life seemed one big joke sometimes.

Don’t put on such airs, he scolded himself, and pulled up the memory-picture of Ishild and her crossbow. He deserved much worse than a faceful of sunlight and ought only be grateful that he had not gotten it. 

“Hold a moment, Sméagol. Are you wearing your brooch?” Boromir was at his side- Sméagol no longer knew their path well enough to justify skipping ahead of him, nor was he in a mood for capering about.

“The White Tree one? Gollum!” He flinched. That sound was rough on his throat as well as being unpleasant.  “No, of course not! It would get dirty, and there is no one to see it!”

“Good. Leave it in your satchel and do not say you reside in Gondor unless I bid it.”

“Yes, as you say, my love.” Sméagol eyed Boromir’s massive stature, and the clothing he wore, which was of a style Sméagol had never seen anywhere but Gondor. Then there was Boromir’s fine speech, which Sméagol had also heard nowhere but Gondor; even the Wood-men had asked him if he was friends with Elves. And there was his walking-stick which had the White Tree carved upon it. His hair was dark and straight and cut to the shoulder as the Gondor-Men wore it, his eyes were silver, his sword was a style worn only in Gondor and Rohan- he was the most Gondorian Man of Gondor who ever lived. Even before, when Sméagol had still been crazed and only really cared what Frodo was doing, he had noticed that Boromir and Aragorn were different from any Men he’d seen before. 

The only thing Boromir no longer had from Gondor was that Horn of his.

They were out in the open now. Boromir took in his first view of Rhûn. He looked keen enough. Something about all of this was pleasing to him as General, a trail of thought Sméagol couldn’t follow. To him it looked like a drier and more unfriendly Rohan, meadows on meadows with an occasional sturdy lonely tree, and the sight of all that grass rolling around made him queasy. At this stage of the trip, all he could think was how much nicer it was in the Pelennor by the River, with the white walls of Minas Tirith in sight.

Boromir nodded and looked down at him. “There it is. What do you think?”

“We have not seen enough of it yet,” Sméagol said diplomatically. 

“From the talk of the Dwarves, I would expect to find farmers and herders here, and few of them. Their armies were much farther to the East, and they were decimated.”

All Sméagol really wanted to know was how long they were going to stay. He was thinking of the parapets of Minas Tirith, and the fresh breezes, and his lovely cellar with all of his things in it. Boromir had told him from the outset that the length of their visit depended on how friendly the people were and how much they were willing to tell, and it was unlikely he would look at the barren meadow, decide he had seen enough, and turn around to go home.

But if he did, they would just have to go all the way through the Wood again. Even if they left right this minute they would be weeks from home yet. Sméagol put the inside of his wrist against his forehead, unaware of how woebegone this made him look. 

“We have a long walk ahead,” said Boromir. “At least I do! Your services as my guide have ended, I deem, and you deserve a rest. Shall I carry you?”

“If he doesn’t mind it… but I suppose he wouldn’t ask us if he minded.” In fact Sméagol had noticed that when people were suddenly interested in carrying him it was often because they didn’t want him running off on them any longer and for some reason they would not just say so. But he wouldn’t bother pointing out that Boromir could simply ask him to stay nearby- he was weary. Whether he deserved a rest was in question perhaps, but he certainly wanted one. “Yes, it’s been a long way, gollum!” He touched his throat and winced. 

And so it was from the vantage point of Boromir’s shoulder that Sméagol first saw the approaching figure. A tall, stern Man rode on a black horse- he was bald as a pebble and had long sweeping fierce eyebrows. There was a wolf-skin about his shoulders.

Boromir stopped where he stood and waited for the stranger to approach, while Sméagol, useless, tucked his capelet closer around his body and shivered. “Is that- from the letter?” he whispered. “He said wolf-skin, didn’t he?”

“Yes, and there is the cleft boulder that I was told to wait near.”

“He’s been waiting a long time.”

“It is an important matter. And you see that watch-tower yonder?” O yes. Sméagol hadn’t noticed it before. “I deem it was not much of an imposition to keep eyes on this space for some time.”

The fine black horse danced with his front feet and snortled some distance away. Horses disliked Sméagol very much and this one was a fidgety fast horse. His rider stopped him and got down off of his back. He looked at Boromir- who was only a hair taller than himself, perhaps- and said nothing for a long moment. 

Boromir held his head tall and proud. The strange Man, the Easterling, took a graceful half-step back and dipped into a sweeping bow. “Welcome, Man of Gondor,” he said smoothly. “Will you come with me peacefully? I see you bear a sword. You may keep it with you. I will give you my own weapons if you wish.”

Boromir dipped his own head in respect. “There is no need. I will treat you with the same trust you show to me. Lead the way and I will follow.” 

“Very good. I am Yuzi.”

“I am Boromir, and this is Sméagol. He is a hobbit, hailing from the banks of the Great River.”

“At your sservice,” Sméagol said, trying to sound as much like a normal hobbit as possible. “And your family’s.” The Dwarf-greeting was the politest he knew and all he could think of to say.

Yuzi led them away. This all seemed too easy of course, but Boromir knew that. He must know that. He was a General. Surely he must?

Yuzi showed them to a little village that was built much the same as the smaller and more out-of-the-way places in Rohan, little cozy huts and not much stone. A few people were out and about at morning chores. They looked like Wood-men but they frowned more. Chickens and goats were wandering about but it looked like, unlike in Rohan, the horses were staked or in stables.

The villagers did not look at all happy to see Boromir. Of course not, Sméagol told himself, he was so big, and he was from a land that was an enemy to theirs, and he had a sword! But he answered himself: how dare they look so nastily at Boromir? He’d done nothing to them, and he looked so polite, and he was a kind noble Man and they ought to like him like they did in Rohan. Was it because he was with Sméagol? He ought to have left Sméagol on the ground where he could get away with not being noticed. And these people had better be a little more polite to Boromir or they might end up feeling Sméagol’s teeth.

Yuzi took them to a big round hut. It looked nicer than the others, and Sméagol suspected he must be important in some way. Boromir could tell that kind of thing more easily than he could.

As Yuzi was tying up his horse outside a frightened woman appeared at the door. She saw Boromir and paled. Yuzi spoke to her reassuringly in an unfamiliar tongue and turned to Boromir. “This is my wife, Deta. She has true dreams sometimes. Your arrival was foretold, Boromir of Gondor.”

“Indeed! I count that an honor.”

“Of course someone musst come, he sent a letter,” Sméagol said.

Now Deta was looking at Sméagol with horrified recognition.

“Ah, but she saw you. In fact she saw a Man with two heads, one fair and plainly of Gondor, the other strange and pallid, and hissing like a snake. We counted it as a sign that you would be deceitful, speaking fair words and meaning ill,” Yuzi laughed. “We are relieved to see that the truth is so simple.”

Sméagol tugged at his collar and resolved not to hiss so much. He did not think it was very polite or nice to greet a visitor by telling him they thought he would lie and had an ugly friend.

Boromir tipped his head prettily to Deta. “I pledge I will deal with you honestly! And so will my friend.”  

Yuzi spoke to her again in his language and she gestured to Boromir to enter.

They sat Boromir down at a round table inside. Boromir was too big for the space, though it was not so bad as with the Wood-men. Easterlings seemed to be of a size between them and the tall Men of Gondor and Rohan. Sméagol couldn’t see much else of his surroundings, they were too bright, a fire was blazing. The heat of it was not so bad, it was a chilly morning. 

“Here, we will arrange a seat for your friend,” said Yuzi. “He needs something higher.”

Sméagol's grip tightened on Boromir’s cape, despite himself.

“You may remain there as long as you wish,” said Boromir. “I deem his seat is high enough where he is, Yuzi. Besides, it is not wise to remove one’s own head.” He chuckled.  

Deta came and placed a steaming cup of something in front of Boromir- some kind of strong-smelling tea. She looked at Sméagol, who smiled thinly and shook his head. 

Boromir took the cup. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

“I would offer the same to any traveler. Will your friend not drink?” 

“Not tea, I fear. Sméagol has troubled health and must be careful in his choice of food and drink. But you may speak to him yourself, if you wish.”

“Water would be nice if he pleases,” Sméagol said. 

Yuzi spoke to his wife. As she walked out of the room he turned to Boromir. “I am sure you know there are those among us who would not be hospitable to a Man of Gondor. Do not leave my home if I am not with you.”

“Understood. Let us be honest with one another. I am not here to take hasty action, only to bring report to my King. He is a good Man and will treat you with all fairness, he is no invader, and will not come and take your lands.”

If Yuzi were smart, and he seemed to be, he would be careful in how much he believed that, Sméagol thought, but no doubt Boromir expected the same.

Yuzi spoke in a businesslike way. “Here is how it is with us. Here is why we have sent you our message. Not all of us wished for friendship with the Giver of Gifts. The ones who did have brought us to war, and to a bitter loss. Now much of our land is shattered. We have many petty rulers among us who are eyeing each other’s lands in a way you claim your King is not. So some of us are turning to Gondor with sober eyes. Your King would stamp the Shadow from our lands. He would prevent us from falling into clan-war. He will find friends here, though there will be foes, also. But if he does not come in time, there may be little left for anyone to rule.”

“You risk much by saying this openly,” said Boromir.

“I do. I fear the future, and so does Deta. Things would not be the same under your King.”

“No. But I may say to you, Gondor is a fiefdom. The King oversees the Council, he does not simply order all as he sees fit. If things progress to the extremity you suggest, one from your country will be put over it, someone who knows and cares for your people, not a foreign lord.”

Sméagol mentally filled in: And it could be you if you does this right. Quite a juicy bit of bait that would be for most Men.  

All the Easterling said was: “You are a smaller risk for us than other risks we may take.”

“Indeed, we would treat you better in defeat than your last master would have treated you in victory.” 

“This I know.”

“Then, let us speak.”

Although Sméagol had a better head for politics than most would assume he did, that was really saying very little, and he soon got lost in Boromir’s talk of trade routes and what goods were useful to whom and other bits and pieces Aragorn would like to know about. He grew dizzy, and wished Boromir would sit a little closer to the hearth for once- wasn’t he cold too? But Boromir disliked fire almost more than Sméagol did, they both had bad memories… 

He realized Boromir had said his name. “Yes?”

“You are weary, I ought not keep you. After all you have never asked for a diplomatic position! I am sure our hosts will provide a place for you to lie down and rest.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “We’re not much good to him, are we. We’d like to rest.”

“I will put out a bedroll,” said Yuzi, getting to his feet.

A youngish girl was sitting in the corner sewing something. Not full-grown, but above hobbit-height. She was just the age of Prestien back at home in the City, who lived close to his house and was always friendly when he came across her in the street, but that girl was friendly and lively. This one looked a bit cold and withdrawn.

Sméagol sat in a tangle of blankets and watched her a moment. He had woken up unable to breathe through his nose and now he didn’t know where he was- it was a small round room with rushes on the floor, a bedroll on top of the rushes and not much else, but where was the room? Without scent he couldn’t tell who might be nearby or who might have recently been nearby, or what time it was. He found himself squinting at things, as if being unable to smell meant he also could not see, which was obviously not true. 

“Good morning,” he said. It came out barely above a whisper and he winced.

The girl glanced up at him and jumped. She got up and walked out of the room.

Sméagol touched his throat and scowled. He felt like he'd made a bad move in a game and caught it a moment too late to fix it. He wished he could go back a few days and take his warm blanket out of his satchel instead of stubbornly shivering under a covering of leaves because he didn’t want to get dirt on things- or go all the way back to Minas Tirith and pick a sturdy cape for the journey, instead of his favorite one that was getting worn out, so he wouldn’t get rained on quite so much. But how was he supposed to know he would take sick from being cold and wet? Sméagol of all people! He had only been worried about Boromir. He was still a touch worried about Boromir, all alone out there in this strange country. Where was Boromir?

Heavy footfalls vibrated towards him through the earth floor. Ah! There was Boromir. 

He sat down by Sméagol’s bedside, which made it much easier to see his face. He looked tired, but no worse than tired.  “Are you feeling any better? You do not quite seem like yourself.”

He was feeling much worse, in fact. “Sméagol bears it. What’s he been doing?”

“Talking,” said Boromir, running a hand over his beard. “Yuzi is summoning some of his- I may call them conspirators. They will be here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Boromir, what time is it? I don’t know how long I’ve been sleeping.”

“All the day. Tis evening. I am going to retire for the night soon.”

He knew Boromir had wanted him to go out and listen under windows a bit once they got to Rhûn. “Sméagol might look around, perhaps.”  

“You still seem weary.”

“We are, but we can manage a bit of a walk, can’t we?" He couldn't remind Boromir that he was supposed to be spying. Yuzi or his family might be listening, they had ears too. 

“I confess I wonder if Faramir had not been better suited for this mission.”

“No, not at all!”

“No? Is he not better equipped with keen sight and fair words?”

He might be. But Faramir wasn’t here, now, was he? And the King had chosen Boromir. Strider knew his business. “The time for doubting and fretting is before the fight starts, not the moment when he chops with his sword, eh, my love?” Sméagol got to his feet. 

“That is quite good,” said Boromir, intrigued. Bless him, he’d forgotten he had been the one who’d said it first. Sméagol patted his shoulder. 

So far there wasn’t much here except for huts and chicken droppings. But there was a public well in the center of the village- that was something. Sméagol’s throat was burning and he hadn’t liked to beg for water from Yuzi’s family. 

The well had an ordinary crank handle like others he had seen before, no strange new Eastern technology here. He supposed that he wasn’t far enough into Rhûn to have encountered anything truly foreign, or perhaps wells were the same everywhere. 

He pulled up a pailful and began to drink it by scooping it up in his cupped hands, and to dab it on his forehead- his face felt hot. As he was doing this a child ran up to him saying something in Easterling-speak. Sméagol looked up, not in an unfriendly way, but abruptly- he was a bit startled- and at seeing his face, the child screamed and ran away.

Sméagol had spent the past three and a half years wondering why no one did that when they saw him. He felt a certain sense of closure. Also, it was horrible. He thought of the children of Minas Tirith who ran after him in the street and asked him about hobbits. Sometimes boys tried to feed him mice or fish, being fascinated by disgusting things as young boys often were. They were nasty sometimes, but they were brave. 

O, what was this? The child was coming back, babbling in fight and dragging a parent by the hand. No, Sméagol didn’t want any part of that! He slipped away. 

The village continued to be dull and the people, when they were out, were furtive and anxious. Sméagol didn’t see anyone worth approaching, and they didn't speak Common, it seemed. That was unfortunate. Sméagol might be thinking he could have stayed at home, if Boromir hadn't needed him other times along the way.

Now who was that over there? Not an Easterling. 

Skog was sitting in the shelter of an alley between two barns, whittling something rather obscene out of a wooden block. He did not see Sméagol until he was quite close, and then he jumped hastily to his feet.

“The Great Eye sees you,” he said, snapping a salute.

"I shut the Eye," Sméagol hissed. "I'll shut yours too."

Skog dropped his arm to his side. "Yes, boss."

"What are you doing here?"

Skog shifted from boot to boot. "Here's the thing, your big friend- well, he let me go. No one does that kind of thing."

"And?"

"I feel like I owe him. I hate it." He bared his teeth briefly.

"Yes, well," said Smeagol. "It doesn't feel nice, does it, but we must make the best of things sometimes, mustn't we?" He tapped his foot, which made a slapping wet sound on the pavement; Sméagol shuddered in revulsion at it and bade himself hold still. "So he has followed us over hill and dale and through trees and glades and into this Eastern waste because he owes Boromir, eh, is that it?"

"There's not much to do. Nowhere to go. You're thinking I could take the money from the camp and run, right? With that much money, I could even pay a few people to pretend I ain't green, right? Well, I went back- money's gone." He gave Sméagol a snide look.

Sméagol's nostrils flared. "Yes," he said. "And?"

Skog put his hands in his pockets and made a face that he no doubt thought was very sly and clever. 

Sméagol hissed and yanked at the strap of his satchel. "If I gives it to you, will you get gone?" Boromir hadn’t wanted any of the money from the robber-camp in Rohan- and why should he? He didn’t need it. Sméagol normally didn’t need money either because the King looked after him, but he didn’t like just leaving it behind, either, so he’d loaded his satchel when Boromir was otherwise occupied. Boromir would probably be bothered by the taking of filthy lucre and friends didn’t quite need to tell each other everything, not every single thing, did they? 

Skog did have more of a claim to it than Sméagol did, he supposed. He had never dreamed Skog would put himself out so far in order to get it back. He had thought Skog would only want vengance if he turned up again- and he still might. But he did not have his crossbow. Wouldn't he have it with him if he was seeking out Boromir to kill him?

"I oughtn't to have taken it," he fumed. "It wasn't mine."

"Course not. Wasn't mine either, though." Skog winked.

"You won't say any fool thing about owing Boromir. You helps him by getting gone!" Smeagol reached into the satchel and closed his hand on his coin-purse.

"Right, course. I mean that makes it worse for me. You know. I think you know about that sort of thing. I saw- well, in the wood."

Sméagol sat frozen with his hand on his purse. "In the wood."

"Still had my crossbow and I was gonna shoot that old bag if she did try and pull the trigger. I mean on your friend. Not you." Skog laughed. "I wouldn't save your worthless hide! But your friend did. He let me go too."

"She wasn't- you should- you should be nice to her." 

"That would've made us even. Me and Boromir. But she didn't try it." Skog waited expectantly. He wouldn't find it surprising or alarming that Smeagol looked as if he was having second thoughts about handing over the money.

"Although, perhaps-"

"Yeah?"

"There is one thing- it's not nice to be worse than everyone else, all the time, eh, is it?"

"Not everyone," Skog laughed. "That Man you choked, back in the horse-pasture, he deserved it."

Sméagol took a few slow breaths and just barely managed not to be sick. "Yes, yes, of course. Well, perhaps-"

It was a stupid idea, but he couldn't quite let go of it and when he put it to Skog, the Orc was very encouraging. He even said he'd take half the spoils now and half when he got back with the job done. Smeagol insisted on giving him all the money, however; he didn't want Skog to come back for the other half if he failed. And he may need the money to get the errand done. 

"And if you cannot do it you won't come back," he said.

"Yeah," said Skog. "You've told me that three times now. I will not come back without it."

Smeagol didn't remember repeating himself. He just nodded, and without another word- perhaps to avoid any more repeatings- Skog turned and left at a dash.

Smeagol went off to try to find his way back to Yuzi’s hut. The village was boring and dreadful and he wanted to sleep. 

“O no, what time is it, what time, my precious? What time! What day? O no, o precious!"

The same girl as before was sitting there sewing again. 

“Help,” Sméagol said to her.

“You are awake.” Her Common was accented but understandable. 

“Yes we didn’t mean to sleep so long, o no precious, what have we been after, sleeping and lazing about here so far from home and Boromir all alone, gollum, gollum!” At least that sound didn’t hurt him anymore (excepting his pride). He could breathe through his nose again, too, but he couldn’t scent anything but a thick sick-room odor of licorice, mustard, nutmeg, coriander, and a lot of other things Sméagol had never wanted to learn the names of but was dosed with every time his lungs went bad on him. His breathing was still a little wheezy and whistly. He was weak and slow as a dried-up snail- he’d been ill for much longer than a day. He now recalled waking up a few times- more than a few in fact, waking up sulky and deciding at once that he was still sick and ought to go back to sleep. He remembered refusing food- which was rude- and sicking up, which was worse. 

He buried his face in his hands- he must have been such a trouble to Boromir. And he hadn’t even meant to be, which hurt his pride as well as his conscience. It was one thing to cause trouble on purpose and do it well, it was another thing to try to be good and fail.

The girl slipped out of the room. Sméagol swiped at his eyes and looked about. It was the same room he’d been sleeping in since arriving here, and the same bed. His chest was bare and had reeking ointment smeared on it- he didn’t see his removed clothing anywhere and his satchel was missing. He scowled.

The girl was back. “The Lord Boromir wants see you now.”

“Of course he does after all this time!” 

“You go to him now.”

Sméagol began to get out of bed and paused. “Clothes.” He did have some knee-breeches on- he’d never seen them before and they were a bit too large. They weren’t adequate for visiting a Lord, even if he was a personal friend.

The girl left without saying anything more. Sméagol looked around in case he had missed something. He hadn’t, his own clothes were definitely gone. So was his satchel with all of his money. Ach! Not that it mattered, he doubted he'd see Skog again- it was better if he didn't. If Skog had been there at all. Maybe he’d dreamed that whole thing. 

She was back again, not with his own tunic but a borrowed one that was soft, plain and threadbare. It was obviously a hand-me-down from a child. That could not be helped. He put it on.

The girl led Sméagol out of the hut. He quickly discovered that he was prone to totter and stagger like- well, like a hobbit nearing six hundred years of age could be expected to do, if he could move at all. The girl walked off on him without a word again and brought back a wheelbarrow that smelled of dirt.  

Sméagol was not very gracious or grateful about it but he did get in the wheelbarrow. It was an unpleasant jostling ride in the heat and Sun, but not a long one, and then Boromir was there, calling his name.

Boromir scooped Sméagol into his arms and held him close against his powerful steady heart. His arms were strong! Of course Sméagol didn’t mind being picked up and cuddled a bit- not if he knew the person. But Boromir had never tried it before so he was a bit at a loss as to how to respond. Boromir probably didn’t like a playful nip, and the situation didn’t seem right for it anyway. Sméagol must smell awful, was Boromir only trying to whisper something in his ear, perhaps?

Then Boromir kissed him on the top of the head. Could Sméagol be mistaken? No, he really had done it! Even Sméagol’s dearest friends did not usually kiss him and he didn’t know what to do about that at all. Surely- no, Boromir certainly did not want a kiss in return- how was kissing done exactly? He must have kissed his grandmother at some point, but that was so long ago.

“You're alive,” Boromir said. “Here, let me look at you.” He held Sméagol out at arm’s length. “I cannot but wish I had left you safely in Minas Tirith!”

“O-oh, don’t worry about it, my love,” Sméagol stammered, “Sméagol can catch his death of cold anywhere if he has a mind, ha, ha!”

Boromir looked as if he was making an effort to master himself. “You can laugh about it! Tis a comfort to me, hearing you laugh again. But you are surpassing thin.”

Sméagol had noticed, he wasn’t happy about it. “Been thin before. Has it- has it been long?”

“Nearly a fortnight and it will take much more to see thee back to rights, I fear.” 

Sméagol cringed. “Has he been lonely?”

“Much occupied,” said Boromir. “The journey has been fruitful. But behold the two of us, battling to worry most about the other!”

“Sméagol’s better now, he’ll be better and he’s not frightened, only he doesn’t like to make his friendses worry.”

Boromir said nothing, only held Sméagol close and rubbed his back. It was nice, but would have been nicer if Sméagol could shake a certain unease- Boromir did not seem exactly alright, he wasn’t so touchy-feely normally. Sméagol was not really alright yet either, and who else was in the room with them?

Sméagol pulled himself up to peek over Boromir’s shoulder. He saw a long table with lots of people all about it. The light was too bright for faces and expressions but he saw bright-colored clothing with glittering jewels, and different shades of skin that meant the people came from different places. He saw short bearded figures that may have been Dwarves, and even a tall slim person who was possibly an Elf.

“Are you busy, my love?” Sméagol asked.

“They can wait.”

“O certainly, but perhaps they ought not wait long? Sméagol will live a little longer and he ought to wash, and try to eat something.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Boromir gently placed him back into the wheelbarrow. Sméagol had no real desire to be in the wheelbarrow, but he supposed it was necessary.

The girl took him back to his room and tipped him out onto his bed. Sméagol was too lightweight to take a hurt from being dumped onto a soft object, but he bristled. “That is rude,” he told her. “Ought to have asked first. Throwing Sméagol like cabbageses!”

“Food?” she asked him.

He wasn’t hungry, but he liked not seeing his ribs and wasn’t pleased to have them back. He ought to try to eat. “Yes, please, yes, food, and drink if she pleases. Water.”

She left. Sméagol sat alone in the empty sickroom and felt sorry for himself. He wished he had not been good and had not told Boromir to stop snuggling him and get back to what was obviously important state business.

“But imagine him starting a war because he wanted to give us a hug,” Sméagol muttered to himself, and he started chewing on his fingernails. “A war with Elves in it. Strider wouldn’t like that.”

The girl returned with a bowl of porridge. 

Sméagol had done enough visiting to know that he couldn’t just turn up his nose at whatever his hosts gave him and demand fishes. He’d trained his stomach to accept a little more variety (it was lonely, after all, never joining in what anyone else about him was eating), and had a compromising habit of eating as much of what he was given as he could manage and then supplementing it later with whatever else he could get hold of. (Hosts did not like to be begged for meat but they did like being cleared out of mice, even if they found his habits disturbing.)

However, it was not exciting to see porridge. Especially since he could not yet hunt and Boromir was busy and could not sneak him something else, so there would be nothing but porridge.

It was a problem for later. Sméagol thanked the girl weakly and picked up the spoon. The stuff tasted awful. 

He never did learn her name. She wasn’t very friendly. 

Hours passed slowly. More of Deta’s children appeared in the room with him- it was their playroom and bedroom when not occupied by plague-stricken foreign visitors, it seemed. They were allowed to return now Sméagol was that well enough to stay to his own corner and not vomit before he could get to a basin. There were five children in all, and some of them knew enough Common to natter away at Sméagol when he was not fitfully sleeping the day away. 

Hours became days. Sméagol slept, worried about Boromir, learned nonsense rhymes from Yuzi’s children (excepting the oldest girl), thought about Minas Tirith, and learned to eat increasing amounts of porridge. 

Eventually he managed the whole bowl. “Not picky anymore,” the girl said when she came to get it back. At the moment, they were alone together- the children were taken elsewhere to eat their meals.

“No, not picky,” he said with false cheer. Little brat. She might try eating a range of things that made her think her insides were going to come up her throat and then see how excited she was to pounce on whatever she was given by strange people. 

The girl took the bowl out of the room and came back almost immediately, surprising Sméagol in the act of scratching at the dirt floor (he thought he would be left alone a little longer than that). 

“Stop breaking the floor,” she said to him. 

Sméagol could have explained, very reasonably he thought, that he was not harming the floor- it was hard to hurt a dirt floor- and was only investigating the sounds of some burrowing animal deep under it, it had been too long since he’d had any meat! 

However, he did not care enough to explain all that. He apologized meekly and went to wash his hands in the basin. He was kept well-supplied with water at least.

“Where is Boromir?” he ventured to ask.

“With Yuzi.”

“Good, good! And where’s Yuzi, eh?”

“Nearby. They are busy. I am not to tell you. No going to look. It is danger for Boromir.”

“O very well,” Sméagol said, turning away. He didn’t want her to see him cry- o why not, what did it matter? “I want to go outside.”

She said nothing.

“I want my things back.”

She said nothing.

“I want to go home, gollum,” he sobbed. She left, and when she came back, she had his satchel. He took it and bolted. He would later find out they had only kept it because they were afraid of his possibly having weapons in it, which was a small irony because Sméagol did not use weapons. He didn't need them.

The cool outside breeze was nice on his face and arms, and he took his time looking for Skog. He didn't really expect Skog to be there.

Yet there he was. Back in the same spot, sitting and picking at his nails this time. He looked affronted to see Smeagol. “I was afraid you weren’t coming to get this thing. What was I supposed to do with it?”

Sméagol was so taken aback he laughed and told Skog exactly what he could have done with it, which Skog took in the spirit it was intended, being an Orc. He reached into his satchel and took out every last coin and gem he had. Clearing that stuff out was necessary anyway, to make that big heavy thing fit. 

As he was wrangling it, Skog asked: “Is anyone left alive in Mordor?”

He went still. “Now there is a question. No. Not who you're thinking of I suppose. Tarks. Rangers.”

“Just tarks?”

“Just tarks and friends of tarks." He anticipated the next question before Skog could ask. "Isengard belongs to the Treeish peoples. No Orcs. There is nowhere for Orcs. There is nothing for Orcs." He looked up and met Skog's eyes. He held them a moment, feeling an odd lightness, not unpleasant. "Go East," he said. "Go to the East and the North where Gondor does not reach. It reaches far. And don't come back to us. Never come back again."

Skog nodded, and left without a word, brisk and intent, the way Orcs went when He had ordered them. 

Sméagol let out a long breath and shook himself. He admired the object in his satchel.

He wasn’t completely stupid, he knew another Horn made from the Kine of Araw would not be the one Boromir had inherited from his nasty father and his less-nasty grandfather and a series of grandfathers going back into time, not any more than a ring from Gondor’s market stalls could be the Precious- but perhaps Boromir would still be pleased if he could have another Horn from Rhûn. Or perhaps Sméagol was only being silly, and yet- he would have kicked himself if he’d left Rhûn without getting an ox's horn. He could figure out what to do with it later. Aragorn would know, perhaps.

A plan barely rescued from failure deserved a nice drink of well-water. Sméagol went to the village well and hauled himself a bucket. He glanced down into it. His face was reflected there. He averted his eyes. 

Some people were walking a ways away, down the path. He overheard voices talking, mostly in Easterling-talk, but then he heard Common- with a new sort of heavy accent. Two people with two different strong accents were speaking to each other. He guessed that neither knew the other’s preferred tongue and they were stuck with Common. 

Of course Sméagol listened. Boromir had told him it was okay to spy, and Sméagol was bored anyway and in no hurry to go back to Yuzi’s house. For a while the Men made jokes about each other’s wives that Sméagol found tedious. Then one of them asked: “What do you think of that Gondorian?”

“He is as tall as a giant!”

“Did you see his little friend?”

“What little friend?”

“Three days ago.”

“I was indisposed. Too much wine.”

“Boromir receives a message, and he looks sharp and says, ‘bring him here, bring him now’. Some minutes later a girl comes with a wheelbarrow and in the wheelbarrow is a thing that looks like a dead orc, and Boromir takes it in his arms and embraces it. He kisses it!”

Sméagol winced.

“How dreadful!”

“Ah! But then he sends it away and tells us, it is a hobi. The hobi comes from the North and its kind are stealthy and swift-footed, and it was they who conveyed the Lord’s Ring secretly past him and destroyed it to win the war.” 

My Ring, Sméagol corrected mentally, with a hollow throb in his chest. He shook his head at himself.

“A dirty trick that was. And you say the hobi did it? Gondor does not claim this deed?”

“No, it was hobis! And so Gondor loves the hobis and gives them all they want even though they are ugly. This new King is kind to strangers even when they are repulsive. It bodes well for his treatment of us I think.”

“The hobi cannot be much uglier than you.”

“Oh, I tell you he can, my friend, whether your imagination goes so far or no!”

“I will wait to see which messages Boromir brings back from his Elessar. He goes tonight, you said?”

Tonight? The only night when Sméagol happened to be out. Why, of course.

Sméagol sprinted back towards Yuzi’s hut. Approaching it, he heard: “I do not expect you to place any bonds on him whatsoever but yet it troubles me that not a one of you knows where he is when he has been so ill so recently.”

“He is here, he is here,” Sméagol wheezed, stumbling through the door. There stood Boromir, obviously in the act of lecturing Yuzi and his family.

Sméagol went to him and grabbed onto the hem of his cape.

“Here you are!” Boromir lifted Sméagol into his arms and cradled him close. It was a nice place to be. 

“Yes! Boromir is done talking? Ready to go home perhaps.”

“I am more than ready in spirit. Some preparations yet need to be made, we will not leave I think until tomorrow evening. I have hired a wagon and horse and will pack them tomorrow. Does that suit you, river-hobbit?” Boromir smoothed his hair. “I see no one has been helping you comb your hair.” There was just a hint of frost in his voice, and he glanced at Yuzi.

“No- well- I lost the comb.” Although he suspected the neatness of his hair was not really Boromir’s worry at heart as the Man had never seemed to take notice of it before. Nor did Sméagol like strangers to help him with things like that. “I couldn’t find any of my things for a bitsy.” That sounded less unfriendly than ‘They took my things’. Even though that was certainly why he could not find them and he was not happy, not happy about it at all. “Got them back now. Talks went well?”

“Yes. Yuzi is impressive. How he brought in all those people I have no idea. King Elessar will be pleased.” Boromir sat, holding Sméagol on his knee. He did not seem to want to let Sméagol go. That was just fine. “I have tales for you, but they may wait. Yuzi and his family have prepared a dinner for us. Will you join in?”

“Yes, whyever not?”

How nice to see Rhûn slipping away behind them! The Brown Lands were not exactly nice, but they were free, and it was better to travel them with a wagon that went through them quickly. 

Boromir had said tactfully that the wagon would not go well through Greenwood and so they would not go into it again. It was true, in fact, but Sméagol suspected there would always be a reason not to enter the Greenwood from now on, which was only fair and sensible. 

“It does feel rather open, doesn’t it?” Boromir said, seeing Sméagol stretching. “I have tired somewhat of huts. But we must treat those people with kindness. Sauron dealt with them badly.”

“Yes, yes, kind. They was nice to Sméagol.” 

“Indeed! You do not look altogether happy.”

He wasn’t, but Boromir didn’t need to be angry at their hosts. “It’s not nice to be sick. I didn’t have a nice time. I’m glad to be going home.”

Boromir smiled and tousled his hair.