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Eardwulf had been told little of what to expect- however, it had been clear that there were to be only five appointed Men in the room when the patient was brought in, and Mithrandir was to speak with them in private. The matter was to be secret. And yet someone new bumbled in alongside Mithrandir, looking lost and out of place.
Mithrandir looked out of sorts. “This young man is Faelon,” he said. “I did not intend his coming; he happened upon me outside as I embarked from my cart with my precious bundle-“ this was said with much sarcasm- “and he chanced to see it.”
They stood now a respectful distance away from Mithrandir- who stood in the doorway with Faelon lurking abashedly at his shoulder- and all packed into a small guest-room in the tallest building in the Sixth Circle. It had once housed important visitors; as a youth Eardwulf had helped lead them on hunts. As the years passed the visitors had stopped coming. By the time Eardwulf grew up and took over the post of houndmaster his duties had involved hunting for food only, and the training of dogs to scent for orcs and give warning cry.
The building was so tall and fortified because the Lord Denethor had prized the security of his guests. After guests had stopped coming it had been used for other things, but presently it was empty and desolate and had the feel of a prison. It seemed an odd place to keep an invalid.
Mithrandir held a bundle of rags, quite small, quite sorry-looking, and having no appearance of life whatsoever, and no appearance of preciousness either. “Tell them,” he said, “what you told me upon this sighting.”
“It is alive,” said Faelon in the voice of a chastised pupil answering a furious tutor, “and piteous.”
“In the unthinking flush of his feelings of pity, he tried to take it from me, not suspecting in the slightest what it was. I believe he wished to attempt to resuscitate it,” said Mithrandir. “I decided someone so audacious might be necessary, and I have confiscated him. I suppose whoever he was working for before will not miss him very much if he was free to wander about looking into strange carts. Now, I had better show you all what you have agreed to take on, and if you realize you had really rather not, I cannot blame you. It is better you do so right away, and leave.”
He walked forward towards the bed. Eardwulf and his companions parted silently at his passing, as if the stooped old man had been the King who was soon to arrive. Mithrandir bent over the bed, to divest himself of the thing in his arms, and when he did so a trembling white hand emerged from the rags and clutched at his robes.
Mithrandir’s face softened. “Sméagol, I cannot stay with you,” he said.
A hoarse whimper answered him.
“I cannot keep you,” Mithrandir said, his tone gentle and kindly. “Even if I had time for you I could not keep you. We do not like each other. You will remember that soon enough.”
There was a moment of silence and stillness, and then the hand released its grip. Mithrandir laid the creature down on the bed. “He cannot bear light,” he said. “I have told you this many times, but I must now tell you again- which is very tiresome- as Faelon has not yet heard it. From now on you will have to work in the dark. But first, you must see him clearly. You will all see him clearly before you commit yourself. Tarador, kindly open the window.”
Tarador had been a blacksmith, and then a soldier. Now he was no longer a soldier but no longer owned a forge. He happened to stand nearest the window, and so he opened it.
Mithrandir began to unwrap the thing in the bed, which started squeaking in protest. Eardwulf had been told to expect a Halfling that was not really a Halfling, and a wild animal that was not really a wild animal, and an invalid that could not stir from bed or do anything for himself but would also require two Men in the room with him at all times lest he wring someone’s neck with his own hands.
Now that he saw what the thing really was, he had to admit he would not have been able to give a more useful description.
Mithrandir looked around at the assembled company. “Well?” he asked. “You will have to tend him in every respect. He is so badly weakened that he can do nothing for himself. You will have to bathe him, care for his wounds, feed him and dress him. If you cannot bring yourself to do it, you may leave at once, and no one will think the worse of you. It is a difficult thing that is asked of you.”
Eardwulf did not stir. He was not squeamish, and the uncanny nature of the thing in the bed had awakened his curiosity more than anything else. No one else left, although some of them shifted uneasily.
“May the window now be shut?” Ruthron asked stiffly. “The light pains the creature.”
“Indeed,” said Mithrandir.
Tarador shut the window. The creature’s breathing grew a little easier, and his squeaking cries stopped.
“I should like to be able to tell you more of what to expect,” said Mithrandir, “but I myself do not know. He has been under a powerful influence for many years, and that influence has been terminated. It left marks, of course, but he will be different. He must be different if he is to live. He is alive now, so a difference of a profound sort has already taken place. I am afraid my time grows short, and there is nothing more I can do to help you in any case. You all will have to tell Faelon what his job will be, as he did not leave when he was given the opportunity. I bid you all farewell.”
That left six Men standing around the bed, watching their frail charge as his chest rose and fell. He had the anxious look of someone who might at any moment fail to take his next breath, but Mithrandir had not behaved as if he feared an imminent end.
[Name] cleared his throat. “I am in charge,” he said. “What would you know first, Faelon?”
“If you please, sir, what manner of creature is this?”
“You have seen him for yourself,” said [Name], “and now you know as much as we do.”
“He is kin to the Halfling folk,” said Tarador. “Of a distant kind, I suppose. I would have first guessed he was an orc.”
“And we are to be looking after him?”
“Yes,” said Tarador, “apparently we are simply supposed to give him food and water and keep him in the dark.”
“Along with the other care an invalid needs,” said Ruthron. “He will need to be washed and dressed and have his wounds tended.”
“How badly is he wounded?” Faelon was eyeing the bandages on Sméagol’s face.
“He has abrasions and burns,” said Ruthron. “None are serious of themselves, but he has many of them.” The resulting amount of bandages made it look as if the creature had had his head split open and re-assembled.
“He is some grand criminal, as well, I hear,” Tarador added, “and dangerous too.” He raised an eyebrow at the small form.
“And his name is Sméagol?” Faelon ventured.
Sméagol seemed to twitch at the sound of his name.
“An odd name,” [Name] mused.
“I would expect an odder one, from the look of him,” said Tarador.
“He’s trembling,” Eardwulf noted. “If I were in his place I would not be keen on the presence of six strangers who were twice my own size. He is reputed to be a wild creature, and wild creatures are prone to die of terror. Was not the plan to have two only at a time?”
“Yes,” said [Name]. “You remain for now, with Faelon, and tell him what is to be done.”
He, Tarador and [Othername] left quickly. Ruthron lingered. “I should like a look at his wounds,” he said. He was in training in the Houses of Healing.
“Then look as well as you can by candlelight,” said Eardwulf, taking a seat by the wall. The room had been equipped with expensive beeswax candles, a compromise between the Men who needed light and their charge who hated the Sun.
Faelon sat beside him, fidgeting. “Can the creature not speak, then?” he asked. “Or does he not speak the common tongue?”
“His throat is badly damaged,” said Ruthron, who always spoke without emotion. “He could not speak now, even if he were lucid- which he is not. It’s not known whether he will wake, and if he does, if he will speak. Mithrandir believes he will, but I do not see why he-“ He had been examining Sméagol’s face, suddenly he pulled his hand away. “He bit me.” His voice stayed flat. “A reflex, I think. He is weak but his teeth are sharp.”
“It might be- I beg pardon, sirs,” said Faelon, “but it might be kinder to proceed as if he can hear us.”
“Perhaps so,” said Eardwulf. “Hello, Sméagol; my name is Eardwulf. I am here to help you.”
No answer came.
“I have seen enough,” said Ruthron. “I will be by later, to relieve you.”
“On our way out perhaps you might ask for his next meal to be brought. Are you hungry, Sméagol?”
Sméagol did not answer.
Ruthron nodded and left quickly.
“He was starving when rescued,” Eardwulf explained, “and we are to feed him a small amount once every hour. That is what the hour-glass on the table is for. I hear at first it was broth every quarter of the hour. Our duties are lighter already and will lighten more as he recovers.”
“Where was he kept before now?”
“Ithilien. He cannot remain there. I was not told why.”
“What does he eat?” Faelon asked.
“Meat,” said Eardwulf.
Faelon eyed the creature apprehensively.
For the first few days Sméagol said nothing, stared into vacant space, nipped weakly when handled and made no attempt to stir his own limbs. He might look unusual, but his care was not much different from that of an ailing hound. He ate like a hound- messily, noisily, with gnashing fangs, and with somewhat less than a hound’s notice of whether or not someone's fingers got into his mouth along with the scrap of meat the fingers were holding.
The others generally preferred to keep Sméagol at arm’s length and feed him with tongs, but this was more hassle than it was worth to Eardwulf. Sméagol disliked the tongs and growled at them. He accepted hands more easily, which made his feeding more efficient and sooner finished. Eardwufl wore thick gloves- Sméagol was not strong enough to break through them.
Eardwulf took to cradling Sméagol’s head in the crook of his arm to feed him- this held him at a convenient height. [Name] was game enough to try the operation as well, and was rewarded by immediately developing a rash on his arm where the creature’s skin had touched it.
No one else who had touched Sméagol or his clothing or bedding had had such a reaction, so it did not seem as if the creature was producing an actual poison, but [Name] soon found that he could not even handle the pillow Sméagol had used. He began to sniffle and itch at the eyes if he was in the room too long. It seemed he was allergic. He simply had to resign.
“I have lost aspiring dog-boys for similar reasons,” Eardwulf said. And then there were five.
“Are you in charge now?” Tarador asked him.
“I?” Eardwulf asked. “Why should I be in charge?”
“You seem so fond of the wretch.”
“Would you like me to be in charge? T’would only give me license to find fault.”
“And what would you find fault with?”
“Stop teasing him into biting your hand,” said Eardwulf. “It will teach him bad habits.”
“Tis the only thing to pass the time with.”
“You are here to work, not pass time.”
“I have decided you need not be in charge. After all, Sméagol is not a dog.”
Indeed not.
Sméagol was easier to look after than a dog in some ways- he enjoyed and welcomed baths, and didn’t shed fur everywhere. He was more difficult in other ways- for one thing, he needed to be dressed. No doubt if a dog was expected to wear a shirt and braies the dog’s limbs would insist on bending, and refuse to take the proper shape to go through sleeves- and if this dog was able to form fists he might well do so, to keep his arm from fitting into a sleeve when he did not want it to fit- and he would, no doubt, whine and growl protests during the operation. But dogs did not wear shirts. Sméagol did.
The Men tried allowing him to go bare, and he sweated through his mattress so badly that it needed to be replaced. So he must wear shirts, which were more easily replaced when they grew damp. And to avoid ruining another mattress the shirts must indeed be replaced when they grew damp, which was often. And every time his shirts were changed, it seemed that Eardwulf found more scars in the pale skin- more marks of degradation, neglect and torment. It was enough to keep one from losing patience when Sméagol took issue with his shirt being pulled over his head and spat at whoever was taking it off.
“I ask you what you would do if a stranger twice your size was removing your clothes without your permission,” Eardwulf said to Tarador. Eardwulf was wiping his cheek with a handkerchief. Sméagol, now somehow dressed in new, clean clothes (if not dressed neatly), lay in a heap on the bed, slumbering fitfully, his thin face marked with tears.
Tarador eyed the little wretch. “I would not like it,” he said. With great reluctance he added: “I can only hope I, too, would have the courage to spit at a giant.”
It was less courage, Eardwulf thought, and more delirious rage. He did not say so.
“And I can only hope he will continue to choose to spit at you and not me,” said Tarador.
Eardwulf shrugged. “It washes off.”
“Where is it?”
“I beg your pardon,” said Eardwulf rather foolishly. He had been looking at Sméagol’s face when he spoke, and had seen his mouth form the words; else he may not have gotten it into his head that the creature did indeed speak, that he spoke the common tongue. It had been long weeks of growling and squeaking.
Tarador was in the room with him. He had nodded off, and was now blinking and looking about for the source of the commotion, looking everywhere but on the sickbed right in front of him.
“Where is it?” Sméagol asked. “Ah- a-ah! My heart!”
Eardwulf felt at Sméagol’s small heart and found it rapid but strong.
“It is gone,” said Sméagol. “No. No!”
“Don’t try to talk,” Tarador ventured.
Indeed his voice sounded painful, but Sméagol paid the Man no heed. “O, it hurts! It hurts!”
“Where is the pain?”
“It is gone, it is gone forever and now I must die. Everyone wants us to die. Now I will die.”
“That is not so, Sméagol,” said Eardwulf, “I don’t want you to die.”
“I shall. I must! There is nothing else.” Sméagol closed his eyes and slipped away- but only into a sleep. Eardwulf listened for his breathing- which continued steadily- smoothed back his limp, stringy hair, and could do little else.
“Well!” said Tarador. “That was pleasant. I hope that doesn’t happen again.”
In fact similar incidents happened at random intervals for the next two days. At some point during that time while Eardwulf was not on duty, the Ringbearer himself came to visit the invalid and was told rather foolishly that Sméagol was expected to die soon. Actually, Sméagol seemed no closer to death than previously, whatever the creature himself appeared to think. He was eating well and was already returned to an ordinary three-a-day meal schedule. He had gone from an ominous deathlike stillness to weakly thrashing in bed. He turned his head in response to sounds and occasionally seemed to be aware that people were in the room with him even when they were not handling him. By all accounts he was improving, but the Ringbearer had an emergency visit regardless.
Ruthron, Faelon and [Othername] were all in the room when Eardwulf came to take his shift and was told this information. In response Eardwulf folded his arms over his chest and looked back at them. There had been no need to make things so dire, and compel the Halfling who had saved the world of Men to visit this dark, shabby little room. And Sméagol was fractious and unpredictable. It was a miracle that the Ring-bearer had not had his finger bitten off.
Eardwulf said none of this. He was more used to dogs than people. Dogs had an innate sense of what they had done wrong, and showed their guilt by whining and hanging their heads. After a moment of Eardwulf’s stare, Faelon did the same. The other two Men showed no notice.
“You’re dismissed,” said Eardwulf, and took his seat by Sméagol’s bed. The patient was sleeping and seemed, if anything, a little better than Eardwulf had last seen him. His color had not improved (and as Eardwulf discovered much later, it never would), but his expression was relaxed and his breathing was even, and it looked as if he had nuzzled into the pillow rather than just sitting limply in whatever pose he had been set into. Perhaps the presence of the Ring-bearer had suited him.
After a moment Eardwulf realized Faelon had not left.
“What is it?” he asked.
“My lord, please reconsider,” he asked with as much desperation as a quiet bedside voice would allow.
“Reconsider what?”
“I do not wish to be dismissed.”
“I did not mean permanently,” said Eardwulf. “Only for tonight.”
“Ah! Thank you. Thank you.”
Eardwulf raised an eyebrow. Faelon left quickly- perhaps afraid of incurring more displeasure.
Tarador was supposed to be coming, but he had not yet appeared. In his absence, Sméagol’s room was calm and quiet. And there was really no need for more than one Man to sit with the creature- it was clear that Sméagol could do no one any harm in this state. Eardwulf checked the peeling burns on the creature’s face and hands and found them healing well. The one wound on his arm that still required bandaging had recently been re-dressed and did not need attention.
Eardwulf did not like to seem as if he were trying to pry into things that did not concern him, but eventually he had pressed for a little more information about the source of these injuries. Sméagol's scorched mouth and throat, his blistered hands and feet, his exhaustion and his thinness could all be explained by the trip to Orodruin he had supposedly taken- but why was he covered in bruises and scrapes? Why did the bruises have the shape of clutching fingers or striking fists?
"He was in a fight," Mithrandir had said. "Do not pity him too much on that account. He won."
None of Sméagol's injuries were severe enough to threaten his life, unless he had an internal wound that no one could find. He had an anemic look and Eardwulf had worried at first that perhaps his lifeblood was draining away inside him- hounds could lose their lives that way, growing weaker and dying after a blow to the belly, without any broken skin. But if there was such a wound even Mithrandir had been unable to find it, and thus far Sméagol was still breathing. His chief complaints seemed to be weakness, confusion, and overwhelming fatigue. It seemed also that he may have had a fever that came and went, but this was difficult to judge- Sméagol sweated continuously, and as of yet he had not been able to say whether he felt chilled. His skin remained cool or even cold to the touch.
Eardwulf felt at Sméagol’s clammy forehead- it felt much the same as it always did.
A pitcher of water stood nearby with a cup for drinking. Eardwulf filled the cup and offered it to Sméagol, propping him up on his arm. He did not give much sign of waking, but when the cup was put to his mouth he sipped eagerly. When he had drunk his fill Eardwulf poured some of the clean water from the pitcher onto a cloth and began touching it to Sméagol’s face and arms. Sméagol enjoyed the feel of water greatly, or at least, it seemed he did- so much so that he was always calm and almost pleasant when given a bath, even though he must not like being scrubbed.
The creature twitched under his hand and mumbled: “Gran?”
Eardwulf paused.
He did not have the heart to remind Sméagol that the person comforting him was an utter stranger. Eardwulf said nothing, and continued applying the cool cloth.
When he at last withdrew it, Sméagol mumbled thickly: “Where are we? It doesn’t… ss-smell right. Smells of… of Men.”
“You are in Gondor.”
“Gondor… Gondor! The land of the Rangers!” Sméagol drew a quick, frightened breath, and turned his face away, and said no more. A while later he again woke and asked, in bewilderment, where he was, and was again shocked to find it Gondor.
Were Eardwulf a Man with a cruel sense of humor, he could have simply named random places to see what Sméagol would think of them. Instead, the next time he was asked he said: “You are in a safe place, where you are cared for.”
This made Sméagol scowl at him. “He’s lying,” he said, and turned his face away. He spoke no more that night.
A little later, Mithrandir and the King came to visit the patient. They thanked Eardwulf for his work and bade him wait outside. They emerged after a while, thanked Eardwulf again, and asked if he had any questions. Eardwulf did not, but as he had the opportunity, he argued that two Men in the room was too many for Sméagol- it had begun to seem as if the creature was restless in their presence and perhaps he should even be left alone for a time to allow him to sleep more easily. Perhaps with someone listening out in the hall in case he cried for attention. The King looked thoughtful and agreed.
Tarador was thrilled to hear he would be spending less time with Sméagol. Faelon and Ruthron were both relieved to be able to devote more of their time to sleeping and working their regular jobs. [Othername] resigned entirely on the spot, saying he worried about his hands as Sméagol grew stronger and bit harder and with more precision, and no longer felt his presence was so necessary as to be worth the risk.
Now there were four.
When alone with the creature, Eardwulf noted how much more peaceful and restful the sickroom felt without Tarador to look down his nose at Sméagol or [Othername] to fret over his hands or Ruthron to be cold and distant or Faelon to be youthful and hapless. In fact it was so restful- and dark- that Eardwulf fell asleep himself to the sound of his charge’s even breathing.
He awoke feeling a bit foolish, as he had often been critical of Tarador for falling asleep. He felt even more foolish- and a little alarmed- when he saw that Sméagol was awake and watching him.
His large eyes were bright and alert, and much more focused than Eardwulf had ever seen them- meeting his own eyes for the first time that he could recall. He felt the same thrill that he felt when an animal first looked at him and knew him, and had to caution himself. Sméagol was an unknown quantity. He could not be expected to become tame and loving. In fact, he might turn out more like a Man than a dog at the end of all this.
The creature said nothing, but his gemlike eyes stayed riveted on Eardwulf for a moment. Then he cast his gaze aside with a hint of shame.
Those eyes had an eerie beauty, Eardwulf noted. In time he would be nonplussed to discover that absolutely no one agreed with him on this point. They would only go so far as ‘eerie’.
“Greetings,” said Eardwulf.
“Sss.”
Moments passed slowly. Eardwulf looked at the window shutter and tried to judge what time it might be from the amount of starlight that came through around the edges. He glanced at Sméagol from out of the corner of his eye. Sméagol was no longer staring at him openly, but Eardwulf sensed a change. He felt he was still being watched and judged.
More moments passed. Sméagol looked around the room, frowning. He flexed his long fingers and shifted position in bed.
“Are you in need of something?” Eardwulf asked, careful to sound calm.
“In need? No… yes… perhaps… perhaps we are thirsty.”
Eardwulf was careful to give no sign of how shocked he was that his question had been answered intelligently. He simply got up and poured a glass of water.
Sméagol watched with uneasy fascination. “They’ve been tending us, haven’t they,” he said, “these Men. Why?”
Eardwulf had been forewarned of Sméagol referring to himself in the plural form- this was the first time he was actually hearing it done. He ignored it, as he had been advised to do. “We’ve been tending you because you are not currently able to look after yourself.” He approached with the glass of water, and Sméagol reached out, tremblingly, to take it.
“He won’t give it to us,” he said when Eardwulf did not immediately allow him to take the glass, and scowled. “Cruel Man!”
“My intent was not to tease you by withholding the glass. I fear your grip may be too weak to hold it. It has been some time since you drank water on your own,” said Eardwulf.
Now Sméagol looked at him with dawning, abject horror.
“I’ve been putting the glass to your mouth,” said Eardwulf, rather awkwardly. “Here, allow me…”
Sméagol shrank from him. He was not smaller in frame or stature than the other Halflings - perhaps even a little larger than the Ring-bearer’s sturdy manservant - but his thinness and habit of curling in on himself made him look smaller.
“I will not hurt you,” said Eardwulf.
“We can do it ourselves.” His voice shook. He reached for the glass. Eardwulf allowed him to take it, keeping his hands close- Sméagol dropped the glass almost immediately, but Eardwulf caught it before it could fall into his lap or even spill more than a few drops.
Sméagol was shaking badly. “I- I- I’m thirsty.”
Eardwulf put the cup of water to Sméagol’s mouth. His thirst and the habits he had unconsciously formed over the past weeks took over, and Sméagol sipped from the cup, nudging it into a position he preferred but not trying to take it from Eardwulf’s hand. When he pulled away, Eardwulf removed the glass. He was not at all surprised when Sméagol began to weep quietly.
Eardwulf reflected that Sméagol was still weak enough to need help taking baths, and other things far more personal than being given a drink, and he would find that out soon enough. “There,” he said in a stilted voice. “Do you want any more to drink?”
Sméagol hid his face in the pillow.
“If you do,” said Eardwulf, “just say so.” He set down the glass and sat down, avoiding eye contact lest Sméagol find it intimidating.
Before long, there was a knock on the door- this startled Sméagol, as sudden sounds usually did, but now he also looked at the door with dread. He was lucid enough to know the sound was made by a person wanting to be let in, and he plainly disliked the idea.
“Tis someone being helpful,” said Eardwulf. He went to the door and found it was someone bringing Sméagol’s midnight meal. Eardwulf brought in the tray.
“It is foods?” Sméagol asked. His nose twitched. “It is juicy and soft? It is fresh?”
“Indeed,” said Eardwulf. Sméagol’s excitement at the sight and scent of dinner was well known to him; this was after all the same creature he had begun to know, merely restored to his speech and the knowledge of his surroundings. He offered the tray.
“It is ours?” Sméagol asked with pitiful hope.
“Indeed.”
As with the water, Sméagol first attempted to feed himself. The pieces of meat were lighter and easier for him to hold, so he had a bit more success, but it was not long before he leaned back on the pillow and looked exhausted.
Eardwulf decided that it would be less awkward if he simply took it upon himself to begin feeding Sméagol by hand instead of putting both of them through the ordeal of explaining what he was doing and asking permission. Sméagol gratefully accepted the pieces of meat. He also bit Eardwulf’s hand more than once. It was difficult to judge whether he was intentionally finding out what would happen if he nibbled at the thick hide gloves, or if he was trying to pick up some morsel that had gotten stuck to Eardwulf’s fingers and didn’t realize his teeth could be felt. He didn’t show any sign of anger.
For the time being Eardwulf pretended that he had not noticed. Once he had fed, Sméagol fell asleep almost at once, just like a puppy after a feeding. Eardwulf cleaned the smears of blood off of his face, and in the process Sméagol bit him again, without waking. Perhaps it was a reflex. Perhaps Eardwulf should not touch his mouth.
After speech and clear eyes soon came a steadier hand, and the ability for Sméagol to feed himself and hold his own water glass. Then he was able to dress himself, feebly and slowly, and with complaints to Eardwulf that other Men rudely pulled Sméagol’s shirt over his head when he did not want them to, and would not wait for him to do it himself. And he could do it himself. He wanted to do it himself.
Eardwulf nodded and waited an interminable length of time for Sméagol’s trembling hands to manage to get through the sleeves of his shirt.
At first Sméagol’s joy in the feel of cold water was such that it overcame any dislike of being helped to bathe. He seemed unaware that anyone was trying to clean him as he splashed and thrashed in the water- which he did with increasing power, and baths became a two-person job again because Sméagol was so slippery and wriggly that Eardwulf began to worry he would drown or injure himself. The amount of water thrown about was such that they began smuggling the little mite to a laundry room with a drain in the floor for the operation. Fortunately, by this time, Sméagol had stopped panicking when he was picked up- and had stopped cursing and snapping- and had begun yielding to it with weary, silent dislike, which meant he could be moved around without attracting attention if wrapped up in a blanket and a towel so that no one could see him.
(There was a particularly awkward evening when the Prince of Halflings and the Squire of Rohan happened to be passing by the laundry room and Sméagol, who at other times disliked all forms of company in the extreme, suddenly demanded they come in, and they did. After that, Sméagol got his bath at midnight when no one was around.)
Then there came a day when Sméagol said “We can undress ourselfs, thanks ye, nice Man,” in the polite but strained tone that meant anyone who reached for his shirt to take it off would be cursed and bitten, not necessarily in that order, and then it was followed by “Thanks ye kindly, Sméagol is much better and can wash hisself, yes he has done it before and knows how to wash, he does not like to be filthy,” this with the very polite tone indeed and agitated glance that meant ‘Don’t touch me’ as clearly as if he had shouted it at the top of his lungs. And yet Eardwulf had had to caution Tarador as he tried to step forward anyway. Perhaps he had not seen the glance.
Sméagol proceeded to calmly take a bath with his back turned and occasional glances over his shoulder. Finally he said: “They likes to watch us, doesn’t they? Perhaps they don’t know how to take a bath and need to learn.” As if he had been insulting himself instead of them, a shameful flush rose to his cheeks, the first one Eardwulf had seen on him (and it was markedly visible in such colorless skin)- Sméagol touched the back of his hand to his face as if he was just as surprised.
From then on bathtime was much easier, since it consisted of setting the tub down and looking away. This meant Sméagol could be washed more often, which suited both him and the hardworking people who managed the washing of his bedding and clothing.
Eardwulf, who perhaps was slightly contrary, found himself missing the splashing. Sméagol seemed to have remembered he was in civilization, and to him that meant he could not play in the water. No one had told him to stop.
He was feeling so well now that he soon began crawling and shuffling about. Eardwulf had been told about how Sméagol moved, but it was something else to actually see it, and then too Sméagol had waited to be alone before he tried to get up and ‘walk’, which meant that Eardwulf had found out about it when he heard a thump from out in the hallway and then entered the room to see the creature lurching about on the floor in an unsteady newborn-fawn manner.
“What is the matter?” Eardwulf asked in alarm.
Sméagol trembled and stared. “Falled out of the bed,” he said. “It is high up!” (After a few more times of finding him on the floor, Eardwulf surmised that he was getting out of bed by himself but occasionally he did slip and tumble out in a way he had not intended, which upset him very much- the whimpering was not a put-on.)
“Do you want me to put you back in?”
Eardwulf expected either a reluctant and sour acceptance, or a curt refusal. Instead, Sméagol bit his lip and nodded, holding out his arms, and his eyes were pleading. Eardwulf quickly masked his shock and stooped to lift the creature.
“No. Down,” Sméagol said as soon as Eardwulf had a proper grip on him.
Eardwulf set him back down.
Sméagol sniffed at the floor and said: “It would be easier to go back, yes, much, I am already tired; but we won’t get better if we sits and does nothing.”
“Very well,” said Eardwulf.
“Sméagol ought to take a little walk every so often. He will be stiff!”
“Very well.” This made sense, in fact. If Sméagol felt well enough to begin to take some form of exercise, he ought to start; he would indeed only grow weaker if he did not begin to move under his own power.
He watched Sméagol take a ‘little walk’ around the room, and exerted all of his will to keep his face without expression.
“Back to bed,” the creature said finally, simply, unaware he was doing anything out of the ordinary, and as before, he raised his arms in invitation.
Eardwulf helped him back into bed, handling him with the utmost care, as if he were likely to come apart at a touch. Sméagol had tired himself enough that he fell asleep almost immediately after being tucked in (which Eardwulf also did with the greatest care, as if he were handling a bit of pottery with cracks spreading through it), though not before giving Eardwulf a bemused glance.
One of his hands lay outside on the coverlet. Eardwulf had noticed the marks of the thumbscrews and needles before, but now he could not stop noticing them.
It was only a day later that he received word: Lord Boromir wanted to interview the creature.
Interview Sméagol! Not two weeks ago he had taken his meals while lying in the crook of Eardwulf’s arm and weeping because he could do nothing for himself. As soon as he stirred from his bed he was wanted by the son of the Steward. Eardwulf had thought better of Denethor’s offspring than this. In fact he was somewhat hurt, because a rumor had reached his ears that Lord Boromir had suggested him for one of Sméagol’s carers in the first place, and he had been gratified by it; now he suspected it was because the Captain-General thought the ailing Halfling merited no more attention than a dog. (Actually a dog as ill as Sméagol had been would need just as much tending and concern, but most Men would not think so and treating a person like a dog was in general not a compliment.)
Twas a good thing, he thought, that the stewardship had been given to the younger brother, and a pity the whole of the army had not been given to him as well.
“I heard,” ventured Faelon, “that he was in great distress when he asked, and seemed almost desperate to speak to our creature.” He had been the unlucky soul to convey the news.
“I care not,” said Eardwulf. He happened to be in the act of exchanging the bedding in the kennels when Faelon happened by and had politely stopped to hear his news. Having heard his news he had at once stormed back into the kennel and resumed pitching out the fouled straw, with more force than was needed. Argument, a refined greyhound, sat nearby and watched solemnly, with sympathetic eyes.
“Do you think Sméagol is not well enough for it?”
“Do you disagree?”
“Sir, with your leave,” Faelon said, stammering, “I think, with your permission, that Sméagol has been suffering from a bit of boredom.”
Eardwulf glanced over at him. He had in truth noted the same thing. Sméagol had begun to recover his ability to do things only to discover there was nothing for him to do. And he was quick to frustration. “Do you think it will profit him to be interrogated by a son of Denethor?”
“Sir,” he said, not reproachfully, but sounding a bit hurt, which was a more effective rebuke, “I served under the Captain-General, sir. He will not mistreat our patient.”
Eardwulf frowned and threw straw. He had known Lord Boromir for some time, of course, mostly at a distance, and the man had always seemed driven and occasionally abrupt. He had an insidious vanity of the sort that does not come from flattery but from a belief that one’s quite genuinely impressive talents and gifts will never be found wanting when put to a test. All of this was the very worst that could be said about him, when it was the best that could be said of many others. He was certainly not a cruel or cold man. He did not have his father’s air of flinty danger, or his way with smoothly barbed words. He would not toy with Sméagol or cut him to the heart at a whim.
“I shall permit it,” Eardwulf grunted. As if he would be allowed to refuse it. “I plan to prepare Sméagol for the meeting myself.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Do not call me sir. I do not command you.”
“Er, yes, Eardwulf son of Cenulf.” As he left, Eardwulf made a mental note to observe Faelon’s way with Sméagol at some point. He had heard grumbling from Tarador, and thought that four minders could be decreased to three, if they were three of good quality. Ruthron (who was with Sméagol now, if Eardwulf figured correctly) suited well enough, but was not as responsive as Eardwulf would like. Sméagol often communicated with face or gesture when his words failed him, and required careful watching. Ruthron had begun to show a reluctance to look at the creature’s face.
The meeting with Lord Boromir happened the next day, and Eardwulf, though he concealed it well, he thought, was quite put to shame. Lord Boromir had been given confused or bad information, it seemed, and did not know Sméagol was still weak and unrecovered. He was appalled to see him carried into the room in Eardwulf’s arms, and it was plain he would not have asked for an interview if he had known, and would send Sméagol back if he proved too unwell to speak.
He saw Sméagol’s fear and began attempting to reassure him at once. He allowed Eardwulf to remain in the room with him. He offered Sméagol a cup of tea (which he declined), and successfully drew him out into conversation he enjoyed. With judicious use of flattery, he managed to get the little creature to talk to him, quite willingly, until his voice was hoarse and he was visibly tiring. It was more talk than Eardwulf had ever heard out of him.
And such talk! It seemed Eardwulf’s delicate frog-hobbit was some kind of master spy who had lived underneath an orcish colony for a space of time and later dwelt on the outskirts of Barad-dur in the lands of the Shadow. Eardwulf had known Sméagol was held and tormented in Mordor, but not that he had managed to live there freely for quite a span of years before he was taken. Nor had Eardwulf known that Sméagol evidently had such a keen memory. In fact Eardwulf did not quite believe all of it. He had not known Sméagol to lie maliciously, but would not be surprised if the creature was inventing things to remain in a conversation he was evidently enjoying.
Lord Boromir either believed him, or was uncommonly kind and indulgent. He treated Sméagol with the respect due someone who had lived such a harsh and dangerous life and accumulated such a store of knowledge. Lord Boromir did not bat an eyelash at any of Sméagol’s more unusual habits, correct his manner of speech at any point, or flinch at a particularly loud ‘gollum’. When Eardwulf had to caution him that Sméagol’s odd profuse sweat might ruin the expensive couch, Lord Boromir merely said it could be repaired.
In the end, Lord Boromir saw that Sméagol was tiring and dismissed him before he had to make a complaint. He was a great man indeed and Gondor was fortunate to have him at the head of her armies. A better commander there had never been. He would have been an excellent Ruling Steward if the King had not returned.
Sméagol was so exhausted that he climbed into Eardwulf’s lap without waiting for an offer to be carried back, and when picked up, leaned into his chest. He tugged at Eardwulf’s collar with cold, sticky fingers, his knuckles just barely brushing Eardwulf’s throat. "Sméagol is hungry."
"I know."
They proceeded down the hall, and as Eardwulf stepped onto the stairs he said: "Was all of that true? About the orcs?"
"Yes. We do not lie anymore now. Sméagol is good as water now, he is. Honest Sméagol."
"It beggars belief that you have lived that way. You are so small."
"Not so very much smaller than an orc. Master and Sam pretended to be orcses, they did. They put on orc clothes and went into the army!"
"It is still hard to believe. Orcs are vicious, and dangerous." And that remark about the gentle Ring-bearer and his servant passing themselves off as orcs was also difficult to believe, even if it was said in an earnest tone. If Sméagol really was inventing things he would, sooner or later, have to be discouraged from it.
Sméagol’s uncanny bright eyes were now fixed on his. "Sméagol was vicious and dangerous once," he said. "Not long ago. You would not have liked him."
This admission was so frank that Eardwulf was at a loss to answer.
It was true that Sméagol ate flesh and before arriving in Gondor, he had somehow gotten it for himself. It fit with his temperament and his quick, darting hands to have caught small game and fish. But he was so small, so weak and skittish. How dangerous could he have possibly been?
After that, Sméagol began to improve even more rapidly. In fact the conversation with Lord Boromir seemed to have injected new spirit into him. He wanted to explore his room. He wanted to touch everything. Then he wanted to try to climb things. The larger chairs were removed from the room after Sméagol managed to pull one over on top of himself. The hourglass was taken away too, as it was breakable and no longer needed.
Sméagol hid under the bed. He slunk under the table. He disappeared into the wardrobe. He appeared on top of the wardrobe. That was when Eardwulf became concerned.
“Well! The polliwog has arms and legs now,” he said, plucking Sméagol from the top of the wardrobe and setting him down on the bed.
Sméagol was sweating and ashen. He snapped something unintelligible and then leaned back with his eyes closed and a look of despair on his face.
“Tis a wonder how quickly you gain strength,” Eardwulf said, pouring Sméagol a cup of water. “When you came to us you could not stir from bed. A Man in your condition would have died, I expect.”
Sméagol said nothing, but drained the cup of water with obvious gratitude. “I want to sleep,” he said, pouting.
“Then sleep.”
“Ach! Nothing gets done when I sleep.”
“What needs to be done?”
Sméagol looked, if possible, even grayer than before. “Nothing. It is gone.” His voice was faint. “I may as well stay in bed… or anywhere.”
Eardwulf took the empty glass from Sméagol’s withered hand before he could drop it. He had thus far only worsened matters by speaking, but he did not wish to leave things as they were. “How did you get up there?” he asked, gesturing to the wardrobe.
“Eh?”
“How did you reach the top of the wardrobe? Tis too high to jump and I see nothing to hold on to. The doors are too smooth and the handles are quite low.”
“There is enough to hold on to for us,” said Sméagol with slight surprise. “Of course the Man could not do it, he is too heavy and would only pull the wardrobe over onto hisself, but there are rough patches in it- yes, we holds on well enough.”
“Impressive.”
“Is he impressed? It is not even any higher than his head,” said Sméagol, looking both amused and frustrated at once.
His pallid face had seemed to hold no expression for the first month or so. Eardwulf wondered if the creature’s emotions were waking back up into his face, or if Eardwulf had simply improved in his interpretation of pale glances and twitches of the mouth. Or perhaps he was inferring too much. “I could not climb that whether it were large enough to hold my weight or no,” he said finally. “And I would not worry so very much if you need to rest. You were very ill. And as you say, there is no need to force yourself beyond your limits. You are safe here and do not need to hunt- certainly you do not need to hunt orcs.”
Sméagol lay back and closed his eyes. Eardwulf moved towards the door.
“Is he leaving already?”
Eardwulf paused. “Do you prefer I stay?”
“No… no, of course not- no, it doesn’t matter.” He sounded confused.
Eardwulf left, to give him some quiet.
Eardwulf woke in the dead of the night to someone hammering on the door, and the barking of the dogs. His heart rose to his throat at once. There was only one reason for someone unknown to the dogs to need him so urgently.
Tarador was the one knocking- his eyes were wild. “Come at once, I beg you,” he said in a rough voice.
Eardwulf did not delay an instant- he asked his questions as he walked. “What is his trouble?”
“He is- forgive me! He is not in the room, the window is open.”
Eardwulf drew a quick involuntary breath. The window was not over-large, but Sméagol was over-small, and had fit himself through less likely apertures.
And so they searched the lawn under Sméagol’s window, a fair drop indeed. Eardwulf pictured the condition the pale body was likely to be in. Every moment seemed to last long. The quiet sounds of the wind were mocking.
Tarador’s eyes were of a haunted man. He ran his hand over his mouth and chin and stared into the grass.
They found nothing.
“Tarador,” said Eardwulf, “his door is not kept locked. Suppose he simply wandered out and is inside the building. We may look.”
“We may,” said Tarador. “I looked in the hall. The other doors along the hall are shut and locked with not even gaps in the doorframe to squeeze through, and the guard by the stairs did not see him pass. He is not in his room. I looked under the bedframe, and in the wardrobe, and everywhere he has yet found to hide, and even behind the wardrobe where there is only an inch of space. He is not there.”
“Sméagol has hands- I am sure if he so chooses he can close and lock doors behind him.”
“He looks at the door in his room as if it is a foreign invention.”
“If he fell from that window he could not have moved after.”
“The body may have been moved if someone found it.”
“I shall look in his room,” said Eardwulf, walking away without waiting for Tarador. Perhaps-
Perhaps-
Sméagol was in bed where he ought to be. The window was closed.
Eardwulf stood by the bedside. Sméagol’s small head on the pillow was just in its usual spot, his face was calm, his breathing was even. Eardwulf reached down and smoothed his forehead, which was, as ever, cold and faintly sticky- the creature stirred and threatened to wake. Eardwulf withdrew his hand.
He heard creaking steps behind him. Eardwulf gestured at the sleeper in the bed. “All well,” he said softly. He was not yet angry with Tarador for the moments of imagined heartbreak. That was coming swiftly.
Tarador went to the window and stared at it. “Twas open,” he said, a little too loudly. Eardwulf motioned for silence but the other man was too distraught to heed. “Twas open! Look- he has left handmarks on it. He did open it!”
Sméagol had woken, and was stretching with his hands curled, looking remarkably kittenish to Eardwulf’s eye. “O! What’s this?” he said, glancing at Tarador and the window in alarm.
“Did you open the window, Sméagol?” Eardwulf asked.
“The window? Yes, we did- gollum! It was close, and hot, like a stove. We was breathing the same air over again. It was not locked. May we not open the window?” There was a flicker of something approaching shame in his eyes.
“You may,” said Eardwulf. It was unlike Sméagol to be ashamed because he had opened the window for fresh air without permission. Nervous and babbling, yes, because he was in piteous expectation of punishments at any moment- but not ashamed. What else had he done?
Eardwulf might have suspected him of throwing something out the window, perhaps the mirror that he so disliked and had laboriously turned to face the wall, but the ground under the window had just been thoroughly inspected and there was nothing there. Also, the mirror was here in the room where it had always been.
Tarador sat down against the wall, shaking his head heavily. With great effort he said: “I am glad no great harm has been done. I suppose he was in the bed all the time and I overlooked his small form in the dark. I had thought- I thought I had pulled back the bedclothes to make certain- I suppose I did not.”
“No harm has been done. I shall take the rest of your shift if you wish to leave,” said Eardwulf.
Tarador left quickly. Sméagol sighed deeply.
“Are you glad he left?” Eardwulf asked him.
Sméagol struggled a little with the question. He was sitting up in bed now, pawing at the coverlet with fretful motions of his hands. He was flushed and damp with sweat, which indeed he would be if the room were over-warm for him. But if it were, why was he under the blanket?
He had not the unhappy look of a fever.
“Yes,” Sméagol said finally. “Yes, I’m glad he left. He does not like Sméagol.”
“He will not be back,” said Eardwulf.
“Not ever?”
“Not ever.”
Sméagol watched him warily. “He said nasty things about Sméagol.”
“I know. He said them in my hearing and I asked him to stop.” He paused. Perhaps he should have dismissed Tarador at the time, but the remarks had been from frustration moreso than malice and it had been too early in the project to overrule a man appointed by Mithrandir. He had not realized Sméagol’s hearing was so sharp.
“It was him, it was, my precious, it was him,” Sméagol said under his breath with great excitement, and gave Eardwulf a look that bordered on admiration. He seemed alert and quite lucid. He certainly did not look ill, but he had a suggestion of someone who had been over-exerted.
Eardwulf glanced at the wardrobe that Sméagol so liked to climb, the one with no visible handholds. He had formed a notion that seemed slightly too ridiculous to even mention.
“Eardwulf?”
It was the first time he could recall that Sméagol had spoken his name aloud without any prompting. Indeed he had not realized that Sméagol knew it. He turned. “Yes? What do you need?”
“Sméagol is hungry. Very; it is not time for food yet, I know, not for hours and hours, but I am very hungry. Could he perhaps?…” He trailed off without completing the question.
Exercise made one hungry. Eardwulf glanced again at the wardrobe that Sméagol climbed atop of so often. “If you are hungry, then it is time for food now. I shall have something sent to you.”
“Yes, yes, nice Man, nice food, nice Sméagol. We will not open the window any more if they does not wish it, gollum!”
“It is your window and you may open it if you like.” He stood, and said: “Stay here.”
“O of course. We has nowhere else to go,” said Sméagol, opening his eyes very wide.
“Sméagol has been climbing out of his window.”
Thus said the King, who had summoned Eardwulf, as well as Ruthron and Faelon. By doing so he had saved Eardwulf of the necessity of learning how to contact him.
Ruthron showed no emotion. Faelon looked confused.
The King turned his clear, wise eyes to Eardwulf. “I expected disbelief, but you know him, I see, better than I credited you for.”
“I suspected, my King. He admitted that he had opened it, and there was a time when we could not find him inside the room.”
“His window is four floors up,” said Ruthron.
“He was clinging to the wall inside his room the other day,” said Faelon, with dawning horror. “I never thought he would cling to the wall outside as well. We must stop him! What if he fell?”
The King folded his hands on the top of the desk and leaned forward. “I have a proposal to make, which I urge you to consider carefully. I do not wish to stop him.”
His statement met with silence. Faelon and Ruthron were still contending with the idea that Sméagol had such abilities. Eardwulf saw no need to comment.
The King turned to him. “You agree?”
“I do not see a way to stop him, short of chaining him, which would be cruel,” Eardwulf answered.
“What if we locked the window?” Faelon said in alarm. “It is so very high up.”
Eardwulf shook his head. “Even if a strong lock were found I do not think the shutters are stronger than his teeth, not if he were very determined and had long hours- which he would have.”
“Would he-“ Faelon began, and then bit his lip. “I fear he would.”
“Then, too,” Eardwulf added, “the exercise seems to suit him.”
Faelon blinked. “Ah! Is that why he has been eating even more than he was- and seems so much stronger? I had thought- he was doing much better than I would expect from someone who is confined to one dark room.”
“You have learned his ways well. That is the next reason I have brought you all,” said the King. “I would like to hear what you think of him. I want only the truth, the complete truth.”
“I dislike him,” Ruthron said immediately.
Eardwulf turned to him with a sharp look.
“I dislike him very much,” Ruthron insisted.
“That is well if it is true,” said the King. “I place no charge upon you to like him. But I would like to hear why you do not if you are willing to tell me.”
“I dislike the way he watches me as if I am an item of prey. I dislike his contrary nature. He is never satisfied with me or with anything.”
“I have not found it so,” Eardwulf said.
The King raised his hand with the palm outwards. “Allow Ruthron to finish speaking. I will desire your thoughts in turn, and then you may say as much as you wish.”
Eardwulf grit his teeth.
Ruthron sighed. “I know Eardwulf will not hear a word against the creature, but he is insulting and peevish. And he is arrogant. I dislike him.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” the King said. “You need not care for him any longer if you dislike him.”
“You will not be permitted to care for him any longer if you so dislike him,” said Eardwulf. The King turned a stern gaze upon him.
“I see it is difficult for you to refrain from speech,” he said. “I will ask that you and Faelon wait outside while I complete this interview.”
Eardwulf sat in the hall and sulked. He did not at first take notice of Faelon, so preoccupied he was with his own anger; when he looked at the other Man he saw he was in distress.
“What are your thoughts?” Eardwulf asked him.
“The window is so very high up!”
“Do you dislike Sméagol?”
“I?” said Faelon, with bafflement. “I have not thought about it- I do not feel I know him well enough to like or dislike him. I pity him- I dislike to see him suffering. I suppose he is difficult at times, but he cannot help it; I do not like hearing such anger towards him. It would hurt him badly if he knew. I wish to do my duty by him- I don’t want him to be grieved by harsh words- or to be injured by falling from the window!”
Eardwulf nodded. Ruthron left the room some time later and would not meet his eyes on the way out.
The King summoned him within, saying: “As you have so much to say, Eardwulf, you may say it now.”
Eardwulf took his seat. “My King,” he said, “Sméagol is only so very peevish if his desires are ignored and his needs unmet. I have no complaints to make of him.”
“None whatsoever?”
“None.”
“It would bring me great happiness to feel that Sméagol is trustworthy and well-behaved. He has had great troubles in the past that made him very difficult to be near. Does he speak with you? Do you feel you know him?”
“Yes.”
“What is he like?”
“He is… a very private person.”
“This I know,” said the King. “I wish to know these things only to his good. I will not tell him of our conversation, I assure you.”
“Sméagol is… curious,” said Eardwulf, who had never sat down and thought this out before. “He is impulsive. His words are quick. He likes words. He is ever fearful, for he has been ill-used. He is quick to defend himself, when he feels a need. When he does not trust and cannot defend himself with his teeth, he uses flattery and fawning, but it suits him ill for at heart he is a proud creature.” He stopped, feeling foolish.
“Continue, if you would. Tell me all.”
“Sméagol is active, and restless, his mind and his hands are quick. He needs to touch things in order to know them. He craves water. He likes to feel the water.” Eardwulf stopped again, feeling even more foolish.
“You disagreed when Ruthron called him contrary.”
“Very much so, for I have found Sméagol easy to please and grateful for my aid.”
“Ruthron called him impatient and quick to anger. Is he not so?”
“My King,” said Eardwulf, “Sméagol is told to wait upon our good pleasure for food and drink and all other needs. We tell him what he is permitted to wear and when he will bathe. Then too he is often in pain, and he often finds he is weaker yet than he would wish to be, and he feels angry when he is hobbled. These things are difficult for all who must endure them- there are few among us who willingly choose to be invalids.
“But you must imagine, your grace, how galling it must be to one who has been used to receiving nothing from others but rudeness at best, torture at the utmost. How would you have him respond? Ought he to be grateful when he finds himself tended by Men double his size and triple his strength, of unknown motives? I would be far less gracious than he were I in his position. I have never known Sméagol to blame me for the troubles of his body, or to complain of me when I had done nothing amiss. But perhaps if Ruthron is not paying enough mind, he may not have noticed that Sméagol is cursing because his back pains him and not because he hates all Men and Ruthron in particular. And perhaps if Ruthron is not paying enough mind he may cause Sméagol a hurt by his carelessness and then be surprised when the creature reacts in anger.”
“Good!” said the King. “Very good! For Sméagol, that is. I fear it is not good for Ruthron. I may tell you, his complaints sounded to my ears like the statements of someone who cannot bear the fractious temperament of invalids and he may not be suited for the Houses of Healing. I am satisfied, and will interview Faelon now. Would you be so kind as to wait outside? I wanted to speak to you as a hound-master when I am finished with him. I need to know how the city has been taking its game.”
“Yes. Very well,” Eardwulf said, showing himself out. So the interview had ended. He had been expecting to have a great deal more to do to account for himself. He had been used to Denethor.
Faelon did not close the door behind him when he entered the King’s office, and his conversation was entirely audible.
“What think you of Sméagol’s temperament?”
“I do not feel I can rightly judge it. I have only known him when he is ill and frightened.”
“I would know how he has behaved towards you, even if you think it is not his true character.”
“At first he resented my presence, for it was forced upon him- he was afraid of me. I do not think he was able to tell me apart from anyone else, in the beginning. But now he looks at me as if he knows me, and he seems relieved, I think, when I enter the room, and I think he may prefer me to others of his acquaintance, and I confess I am flattered.”