Arwen Draws A Portrait Of An Ugly Hobbit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can't she see us?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you had no choice in the matter?"

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

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

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

"What do you mean, Sméagol?"

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

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

She said nothing, waiting.

"Lies, I suppose," Sméagol grumbled.

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

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

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

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

"Is not the grip of Mordor broken?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Nor do Elves."

"Does Elves have rats in their kitchens?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"O? What was it?"

Her eyes twinkled even more. "A ring."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't mind this."

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

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

"We did not want Him to have it."

"Why not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I promissed."

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

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

"Thank you," said the Lady.

"She's welcome," Sméagol said dreamily.

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

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

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

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

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

Sméagol nodded mutely.

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

"Yes, yes. They was presentses."

"Presents from whom?"

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

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

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

"Did you truly?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ah! His memoirs."

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

"What troubles you?" said the Lady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would you like to have lessons in history?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you fond of horses?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Shall I ask him on your behalf?"

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

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

Sméagol disbelieved her in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

"Is he alone very much?"

"Too much."

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

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

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

"No."

"Not even a little?"

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

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

"Why do you not think he looks nice?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Good night, good night."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You spoke to Sméagol?"

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

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

"Why did you wish to speak to him?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This I have witnessed," said Aragorn.

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

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

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

"Would it not?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Madness?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aragorn soon forgot about Sméagol entirely.