The Hand That Feeds You (a Man's best friend)

Eardwulf donned a thick leather vest, tough and impervious to teeth and grappling hands. A pair of gloves hung on the wall near where he kept the vest. These he picked up and considered. They were somewhat worse for the wear, having been well-used. They bore teeth marks. 

“Now here is a dilemma!” he said to Argument, who happened to be sitting close at hand, watching him with sober and solemn eyes. The animal ought to be in the kennels on the floor below, with the dog-boys, but he had somehow or other ended up in Eardwulf’s sleeping quarters, as the hounds regularly managed to do. There were two more nearby, Bragger and Worrywart, panting amiably.

Argument’s tail tapped on the floor, slowly and deliberately, to show that he was listening. 

“Our polliwog has caught on to me,” said Eardwulf. “If he sees me wear these gloves again, he will believe I wear them because I do not trust him not to bite me.”

Argument showed with his eyes that the troubles of Man were weighty and unfathomable things. 

Eardwulf spread his hands in a shrug. “What can I say for myself? I wear them ‘just in case’. Just in case of what? In case he is in a foul temper or has a pain, and cannot restrain himself from nipping at my hand, which is a cowardly way of saying that, indeed, I do not trust him not to bite me. Now what is my duty, my friend? Is it to preserve my hands from the indignity of Sméagol’s love-nips, or is it to tend the destroyer of Isildur’s Bane at least as well as I tend my dogs? I would not insult you by wearing gauntlets around you.”

Argument was so intent upon him that Eardwulf nearly expected him to nod his assent. 

“I believe the answer is plain enough,” said Eardwulf. He tossed his gloves to the dogs for them to chew on. 

Sometimes he arrived at Sméagol’s quarters to find his charge drowsing over breakfast, or even still asleep, but it looked as if today was a wakeful day. Sméagol was outside of the building, sitting by the guard post at the door. Suilorion was on duty and a chessboard sat between them on the table. Sméagol hunched over the board, one fist pressed to his mouth, his pale eyes fixed on the pieces. He sputtered, muttered to himself, counted squares on the board, and tugged at his thin hair while Suilorion looked on benevolently. 

Eardwulf had seen him play chess before- Faelon had taught him the game, fearing that Sméagol had too little to occupy himself, and when those two played together, Sméagol tranquilly lost every game.

Not so now. Sméagol finally picked up one of the red pieces, hesitated, and set it down on the board, exhaling through his nose. Eardwulf himself did not play chess and knew little about it. He could not tell from the board which of the two was closer to winning. Nor could he judge how long the game might have been going on, but next to Sméagol on the table sat a nearly empty plate, with traces of blood and bits of gristle on it. Sméagol preferred not to be seen eating, but it seemed he had taken breakfast out here. If he had been willing to eat in front of Suilorion it was probably because the game was already in progress when the food was brought and Sméagol was so interested in it that he could not bear the interruption.

Suilorion looked at the board as if it were a distant object he was paying only the barest attention to. He moved a white piece without a moment of consideration. Sméagol sat upright and hissed sharply. Eardwulf could not tell whether it was a hiss of despair or triumph.  

Suilorion saw him then and raised in greeting the claw that had replaced one of his hands after a long-ago skirmish. “Hail, Eardwulf!”

Sméagol looked up with a start. “Eardwulf, so it is! He’s come to help Sméagol, and we mustn’t keep him waiting, ha, ha! He has such lotses else to do, he does. No time for waiting. We’ll take the board now, yes, and we can finish later.” He took the chessboard into his hands. “Yes- I will be busy now a long time, of course, so- so I will play with Sss- Sss- Sssu- the nice old man the next time he sits out here, and when will that be?”

As he talked, he awkwardly braced himself for a hop down from his chair, which was rather high for him, and shook his head to ward off Eardwulf reaching to help him with the board, and successfully made his hop while keeping the board level and not using his hands to help him- though he looked a bit strained.

“I am scheduled again… three days hence!” said Suilorion.

Sméagol blanched. “Three dayses? Ach! Yes- yes, nice Man. Yes. Three days.” Muttering under his breath, he carried the chessboard inside. Sméagol could indeed walk upright a way- hunched and shuffling, but on two legs, which let him carry things in both hands when he felt the need, but it never looked very comfortable for him. Eardwulf followed him closely inside, wishing to be at hand to catch him if he stumbled or grew dizzy. 

Sméagol carefully set the chessboard on the table inside and sank to all fours, shuddering. His loose housecoat had slipped down around his shoulders and neck, exposing the bony planes of his upper back. 

“Good evening, Sméagol,” said Eardwulf. “How are you feeling tonight?”

“Not well. Tired. We did not sleep much, not today. Nasty things from long ago crowding into Sméagol’s head and waking him up.”

Eardwulf repressed a wince. ‘Nasty things’ was an inadequate way to describe what he had likely been remembering. “That is a shame. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“Nothing he wasn’t doing already,” said Sméagol. “We wants our bath.”

“Then there is no point my standing around here.” Eardwulf pulled down the empty washtub from the top of the nearby cabinet. 

Sméagol rolled his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. 

Eardwulf went outside and filled the washtub at the well, which was not very far away. This time when he re-entered the building he remembered to nod politely towards Suilorion. The old veteran did not seem to have noticed. Eardwulf decided not to try to get his attention, he didn’t want to risk Suilorion delaying him with conversation- he never quite knew what to say to him.

When he returned with the full tub he found Sméagol sitting on top of the cabinet in the spot where the empty tub was kept, dangling his thin legs over the edge and swinging his large flat feet. 

“Why, Sméagol!” said Eardwulf, setting down the full tub in a particular spot towards the wall, where there was a grate in the floor. “However did you get up there?”

Sméagol snorted. “He is not the one who said the tub should be up here, eh?”

“No, and whoever thought so was some type of fool who thinks we try to keep things out of your reach in your own home, and has never heard the guards call you Wall-climber, and was wretchedly inconsiderate to me as well in choosing such a place, and is likely at least a full head taller than myself.”

“Then don’t put it back up here! Put it wherever you likes, and whoever wants it up here so badly can put it back hisself if he musst.”

“I have half a mind to do just that.”

Sméagol scrambled down from his perch and shed his housecoat into a cloth-puddle on the floor. It was much too large for him, which was no doubt why he found it so comfortable. It was never intended to be his- it was accidentally mixed into Sméagol’s laundry. Before someone could retrieve it, Sméagol had found it in his wardrobe with his things, and had already started enthusiastically wearing it. He had thought it was a present. After all, it was in his wardrobe, where new items of clothing appeared from time to time without anyone letting him know in advance.

Eardwulf was of the opinion that Sméagol’s odd, heavy sweat could be washed out of fabric, and the odor of him would surely be faint after only a brief wearing- it was foolishness to act as if his touch ruined cloth beyond repair. But whether others disagreed, or whether they simply did not feel that the matter was worth disappointing Sméagol over, he had been allowed to keep the housecoat. Then he had altered it to suit him, tearing the sleeves to make them shorter and free his hands. Now the garment really was ruined. 

Sméagol slipped into the tub and began turning about carefully to keep from splashing any water out.

“The floor is waterproof,” Eardwulf reminded him. “Do as you wish.” He walked a few paces away to give his charge a bit of privacy. It would be unkind to leave Sméagol alone in the bath- sometimes he tipped it over and needed it to be refilled, and sometimes he started scrubbing his skin raw or raking it with his nails and had to be stopped. And it would be unwise to give him a large container of water and leave him unsupervised to do as he pleased with it. But on most evenings there was no incident. He did not need to be stared at.

Instead Eardwulf studied the chessboard. It told him little. “I see you were playing a game,” he remarked.

“Sss, sss.”

“Was I interrupting?”

“No! Yes. Of course he was. But I needs more time to think, so I was glad for it. Yes, I was glad to see him.”

“I’m glad to see you too. Do you think three days won’t be enough to decide on your next move, Sméagol?”

“No,” said Sméagol. “Of course, it would be more than enough, if we thought about it the whole time, but we will not be thinking about it all the time. We may forget to think about it until he comes back.”

“That is true enough, but it may not help if you had more time, in that case. I know nothing about chess, but Faelon may have advice for you if you show this to him when he comes to visit in the morning.”

“Ha, ha! Yes, Faelon.”

“Why do you laugh?”

“Faelon is not very good at it,” Sméagol said. “No, he’s not very good at all, the nice young Man. But he is so serious!”

Eardwulf had suspected Sméagol was taking his losses entirely too well. “I see. Indeed, he is serious. So have you been letting him win?” 

“Yes, whyever not? He is so young. Tender like little blind chickses in the nest, he is.”

“Perhaps,” said Eardwulf, after pausing a moment to connect the image of a blind chick in the nest with Faelon’s eager face. Faelon was a strong young Man with shoulders perhaps as broad as Sméagol was tall (when he stood to his full height, which he did rarely), and yet Eardwulf felt the comparison was not inappropriate. “I think he’d be pleased that you know the game better than he taught you already, however, rather than feel dismayed that you defeated him.” In fact he thought Faelon might be the sort of person who didn't even want to win.

“O, he only reminded us, not taught us from fresh,” Sméagol said carelessly. “Gran taught us to play. It is an old game. But I did not like it when she taught me. Boring, I said. Stupid little tadpole that we was.” 

These self-insulting remarks were fairly new, and becoming more frequent, and Eardwulf did not like them much. For the time being he was simply acting as if he did not hear them. “It seems you don’t mind winning against Suilorion.”

“Ha, ha! Not at all. We did win the first game. Yes, we won fair! Then he beat us the second time, gollum! It is two out of three so I musst win the last. I must!”

“Did you wager?” 

“Yes, yes, yes. If he wins, we has to play whatever games he wants for his next night that he works here. He’s always asking us to play, but Sméagol doesn’t like many games.” 

“What if you win?”

Sméagol answered in haste: “Nothing nasty, nothing nasty! No tricks! If we wins Suilorion must give us a button.”

“Is it a shiny button?”

“I hasn’t seen it,” said Sméagol. “It is in his pocket. It may not be very nice, but it doesn’t matter, it is only a part of the game, the wager.” He sloshed about in the water. “We heard something, yesterday, eh, or the day before perhaps, and we did not understand it. Might we ask?” 

“Of course.”

“Sméagol heard someone say it was not nice to wager. That is not quite what she said- I don’t remember her words, but she did not like it. Is it not nice to wager? Is it rude, my precious? It is what we always did back home, and Sméagol doesn’t see any harm in it, but he will stop doing it if the tall Men with bright eyes thinks it is bad manners. And I don’t mean to listen. We don’t want to. But I-“

“You need not apologize to me, otter-hobbit,” said Eardwulf. He was interrupting, but he disliked to hear Sméagol’s tone becoming thin and desperate. “I know you do not mean to listen, but your hearing is keen and the words of others reach them whether you will or no.” So the creature had explained many a time, sometimes through tears. “But if these are words you overheard, it seems she was not speaking of your wagers on games.”

“No,” said Sméagol. “Of course it is not nice to make someone promise anything nasty because of a game.” His voice was so small and contrite. 

“No, it isn’t nice to force someone into a promise you know you ought not to require,” said Eardwulf, who was not sure what to make of the story of the riddle-game and privately thought that Sméagol had experienced that type of promise from both ends. “I think you are close to what she really meant. Most people when they speak of wagering and gambling mean they are betting sums of money they are bound to lose, and if they cannot afford to lose it and bet it anyway, their acts are foolhardy and selfish- especially if others are relying on that money as well as themselves. Some even steal money from others in order to wager it.”

“O! I sees. Yes, that’s what she meant, we thinks. That is it.”

“And that is hardly the same as wagering for a button, a shiny stone or a promise that is of the harmless kind, so you need not worry about it.”

“Yes, yes.” 

“Although,” said Eardwulf, “I should caution you to use discretion when you tell others you like to wager, and to explain what you’re wagering if the subject comes up.”

“We will, we will! If we tells at all. None of their business what we likes.” 

“None of their business at all.”

“Sss, sss, sss. What gameses does Eardwulf like?” 

It was surely a sign of health when he took an interest in the lives of other people, so Eardwulf was sorry when he didn’t have interesting answers to Sméagol’s polite questions. “I am afraid I do not play many games of any sort- I spend my life in work.”

“O. Sméagol is such a bother,” the creature hummed.

“I hope you do not think my hour or so spent with you a day is keeping me from anything,” said Eardwulf. He couldn’t tell whether that comment was self-degradation or if Sméagol was pleased to be thought of as worth others’ time, but he may as well give an honest explanation. “Rather my time is spent in the instructing of dogs, and assistants to care for dogs. And supplying the dogs. And making desperate attempts to acquire more dogs- many died in the war.” He did also have people coming to him every so often throughout the day to discuss something Sméagol had been doing, or was not doing, or should have done, or would be expected to do, but he did not think it prudent to say so at the moment.

“The war! They killed the dogses in the war? Whatever was the dogs doing to get mixed up in the war?”

“There was… an attempt to use my dogs to track orcs and other enemies,” Eardwulf said. It had been Lord Denethor’s idea, which Eardwulf would not say, because even though the project had done some good he could not speak of it without bitterness and Sméagol did not need help to dislike people. “It caused many of my animals to perish. If you ever spot a likely-looking puppy when you are out and about in the City, Sméagol, I would be grateful to hear of it.”

“Yes, of course! Sméagol sees things in the city, sometimes, yes. But we do not know dogs, not well. What makes a puppy likelier than another? Does it wriggle more, is it softer? Does it wave its paws more and squeak louder? Does it roll over faster?” His tone was in earnest.

Eardwulf was careful not to smile at the little creature’s idea of the worthiness of hounds, because Sméagol did not yet understand a fond smile and was prone to think he was being mocked, which would hurt his feelings dreadfully. 

Instead Eardwulf calmly said: “I would think my time well spent inspecting any puppy, so do not be timid- but one that is either especially intelligent or especially calm is best. If it seems particularly friendly to you, that is a good sign.” 

“Sss, ss. Friendly, eh? Dogses does not like Sméagol much. Cats does. I don’t know why they does, or what is it they likes… But what about when he was a boy? Did he like any games then, before he went to work? I did not have time for very much when I was… ss-ssearching.” He still could not speak of any subject that so much as hinted at Isildur’s Bane without tight pain in his voice. Perhaps he never would. “But now, I has time to think, and I remembers things that I used to do, or wished to do, or never had chances to do.”

“It’s good to have time to think.”

“Yes, so what does he think he likes?”

Sméagol would not be deterred, it seemed. Eardwulf was often expected to know the creature’s mind, by guardsmen or housekeeping staff or the King or a host of others who had to deal with Sméagol; but he did not know it. He had never anticipated the comment about Faelon being a blind baby bird, for example. Now he did not know whether Sméagol was merely curious or was asking because he wanted to play and was hoping for a certain answer- and then, to be truthful, there was no ‘mereness’ about his curiosity; it burned brightly and would not be easily turned aside. 

“I have not had as much time to think as I would like, little one,” said Eardwulf. “At least, I have not thought on that subject. Allow me a day or so to ponder.” 

Sméagol was sitting with his back turned to him in the bath, looking up over his shoulder, and his solemn pale eyes gave no hint of his thoughts. “O very well! Men thinks slowly, eh?”

“It is because we are too tall, and thoughts take a while to sift down from our heads,” said Eardwulf. 

“Ha, ha! Perhaps.”

Eardwulf looked back at the chessboard. Sméagol had left finger-smudges on it. They could easily be wiped away, and everyone has left finger-smudges at one time or another. Eardwulf did not think these smudges were dirtier than anyone else’s. Especially not when the creature bathed twice a day and fastidiously washed his hands between meals, or after he had touched the floor, or for no apparent reason at all.

“Eardwulf?” He turned, expecting to be called into service. Instead: “What is this piece of a tube in the wall just here? It looks like it was stuck in while they was making the wall. What is it for?”

“I know not. I can’t see it as well as you can, you must remember.” The room was dim with fading evening light. Sméagol and his tub were tucked into a shadowed area. 

Eardwulf had a guess, however. This building, which had formerly been a kitchen, had once had running water in it. He suspected Sméagol had noticed the remnant of a pipe. There was talk of reconnecting the water and giving Sméagol his own faucet- it would not be unreasonably difficult, and it would improve matters to give him free access to water, as he needed a great deal of it and had to have it brought frequently throughout night and day; but there were no definite plans yet. Builders were yet busy elsewhere with more urgent things, and of course- Sméagol would flood his quarters at least once. Twas inevitable. He would be too excited by having his own faucet to resist the urge to see how much water he could get to come out of it, and he would quickly figure out how to stop up the drains no matter what anyone tried to do to them to make them unstoppable. No one was ready to deal with that, nor with trying to do an intricate project in his quarters, where he could investigate the supplies and touch things and ‘borrow things just for a little look at them’ and grow angry with the amount of noise being made in his living area- because, unless the workers were made to work in the darkest part of the night, they would be working while Sméagol was trying to sleep. 

Therefore, Sméagol could not be told of the idea, for it may only raise his hopes only to dash them. That would do him no good. 

“It looks like a pipe from the sewer,” Sméagol mused. “Or even a piece of the fountainses…”

Sméagol was fascinated with the city fountains and had been asking people how they worked. If he learned the basics of what plumbing was, it was not beyond his abilities to figure out for himself that his house had once been connected to the city cisterns, and to begin to ask whether it could be re-connected. Especially if he went outside and dug up the pipe connected to the wall to see where it led.

“I’ve brought you a present,” said Eardwulf. He had had enough self control to hold this back until the little one needed distracting, though in fact he had purchased it in the morning and been conscious of it all day. 

It worked immediately. “A present? For Sméagol? Whatever is it?”

Of course distracting Sméagol was only a temporary measure. He would be left to his own devices eventually, and would remember the pipe, and would start to investigate it at leisure- but that would be a trouble for later. “I shall show you when you’re done in the bath.”

“Done now.”

“Good!” There was no need to ask if he was really clean. Sméagol was not really in need of being cleaned. He had a serious bath in the morning before he went to sleep, and when he woke up in the evening it was not as if he had picked up a layer of dirt while resting in bed. The evening bath was mostly brought because he enjoyed the feel of the water and because it soothed his aches. “Do you want me to bring you your clothing or will you go downstairs to dress?”

“Downstairs, if he pleases.”

Eardwulf took a towel out of the cabinet. 

Sméagol balked. “No, no, not yet! First he must help us rinse.”

Of course Sméagol did not need to be rinsed. He did not use soap- none had been found that did not blister his skin. But he greatly enjoyed the sensation of cold water being ladled up and poured over his head. Eardwulf grabbed the ladle. 

When he was rinsed to his satisfaction Sméagol asked: “Help us downstairs?” 

He held out his hands to be picked up. His hands and feet looked a little too large for his gaunt body, and Eardwulf was always put in mind of a puppy that had not grown into its paws. 

Eardwulf wrapped him in the towel and lifted him in his arms, holding Sméagol close to his chest. Perhaps it was only over-hopeful thinking, but he thought Sméagol was getting a little heavier. He had quickly put on weight when first brought to the City and properly fed, but then he had stopped while still quite thin.  

Sometimes Eardwulf felt as if he were monitoring the growth of a child, one that was always in a range of dim-to-pitch-black lighting and favored clothing that hid the form and face, and did not much want to be monitored. He carefully placed the palm of his hand against Sméagol’s back. His bones were close to the skin and could be felt even though the thick towel. Eardwulf had not known this when he was wearing the gloves. 

“What did you have for breakfast?” Eardwulf asked. He carried the wriggling, damp bundle to the stairs. 

Opening the door to the cellar let out a musty odor, which Eardwulf thought of as being rather like the scent of a wet dog or the bedding of an animal: he did not particularly mind it himself and sometimes suspected those who could not abide it of being over-squeamish. 

“Sss, sss, it was mutton, we thinks,” Sméagol muttered. He had a way of folding himself up into a neat little parcel when he had consented to be carried. He had contrived to make himself almost cube-shaped. He was not clutching Eardwulf’s vest today. It seemed that he had finally decided Eardwulf would not drop him.

“Was there only meat or were you given the fat as well?” Eardwulf was accustomed to supervising what his charges ate and feeding them with his own hand whenever possible, but Sméagol was not a dog and much of his care had been taken over by the same kitchen that provided meals for the Circle’s guards… even though he was more finicky and delicate than any dog.

“Some ssoft yellow fat, yes, yes… but he doesn’t like to hear about what we eats. It’s not nice what we eats.”

“I do want to hear,” said Eardwulf. “I asked.” He paused at the bottom of the stairs for a moment to let his eyes adjust. The cellar was darker than the upper level, though not pitch black. The candles weren’t lit, but the window was open to the fading twilight. When no one was available to take him up and down the stairs, Sméagol generally preferred to go in and out through his window, and to shamble up the slope and around to the front door when he wanted to enter the upper level of his house.

Sméagol squirmed in his arms a little, not insistently. It meant he was alert, awake, and thinking of all the things he planned to do when he was set down, but wasn’t uncomfortable where he was. “Yes, there was fat in our breakfast and bits of liver. And a little kidney, we thinks. But why does he need to know?”

“I do not like that you’re still so thin.”

“Are we still thin?” 

Eardwulf raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Do you not think so?” Had someone been calling him a glutton?

“Sss. Our clothes don’t fit.”

“No?”

“No, they are too tight now, and they was new, precious. They was expensive,” Sméagol muttered darkly.

Sméagol was very much not a child, and yet- now he was outgrowing his clothes. “I am certain the King could well afford them.” The King would in fact be pleased to hear that his strange ward was gaining much-needed flesh.

“We will be too heavy and it will be too much work to help us down the stairs,” Sméagol fussed. “Then we will have to climb them ourselfs, poor tired Sméagol.”

“I am accustomed to carrying dogs twice your weight and more. I do not think it is possible that you could become too heavy for me.”

Sméagol might find stairs a little awkward but he was perfectly able to climb walls and furniture, so he must not be incapable. What he really wanted, Eardwulf thought, was to feel that he was not loathsome, and no words would convince him- only the willingness to touch him without shuddering. 

In fact, though Sméagol indeed was not heavy, he often seemed to be composed entirely of elbows, and his skin always had a clammy chill to it even when he had not just soaked in cold water. Yet it would be a disappointment if he ever decided he no longer wished to be picked up and carried down the stairs. 

“But I am displeased with the tailor who made your clothing,” said Eardwulf, “for I told him quite clearly to make your garments loose, as you were still recovering from starvation and putting on weight, and we knew your clothes might not fit for very long if they were tailored too closely.”

Sméagol muttered and hissed under his breath.

“That is no fault of yours,” Eardwulf insisted. “You won’t need entirely new things. They can be altered.” Dealing with tailors was something new for Eardwulf. Hounds did not require their services.

“He will have to measure us again and he thought we was nasty. He won’t be pleased.”

“I’ll measure you if he doesn’t wish to do his job. Do you have clothing for tonight?”

“Yes, yes, it isn’t all wrong, not yet. But the things they has us wear if we must look nicer are too tight and we didn’t like wearing them to begin with. They itches and scratches us.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He could see well enough now to take Sméagol to the wardrobe and set him down- though as he was stepping back, Sméagol turned to him and caught hold of his hand. 

“Now what’s this, what’s this? You don’t have any gloveses today.” Sméagol began to nose at his hand, snuffling. His nose was cold, and when he snuffled, it was remarkably like a hound’s snuffling. “He’s forgotten his gloves.” His breath too was cold.

“I did not forget,” said Eardwulf. “You advised me that I ought not to need them anymore, so I’m not wearing them.”

He drew a sharp breath. “What’s these marks?”

“Marks, Sméagol? I am afraid my hand is in shadow and I can see little of it.”

“Marks- scars, here.” He touched a place at the base of Eardwulf’s thumb.

“The teeth of a hound,” said Eardwulf quickly, because he felt Sméagol’s hand trembling- Sméagol’s hand had its own scars from quite a different source. “I was inexperienced, and frightened a mother with pups. I had to examine the pups, and had not spent enough time convincing the mother my intentions were good; she took exception to it. It’s a hazard of my work to be bitten. Even the most tame and loving animal will use his teeth if he’s too badly frightened or hurt.”

“Yes, and that is why he wore the gloveses before,” said Sméagol, letting go of his hand and turning away. “Ach!”

“I wore them in part because you used to shudder at the touch of a bare hand,” said Eardwulf. “You never have given me a serious bite, in fact.”

“No?” He was taking out his clothes from the wardrobe. “Can’t remember anything. Sméagol must have bitten him once, I thinks. More than once.”

“Not a serious bite. A warning nip, every so often. Nothing that would break the skin.” 

“A warning, he says. Not a nice way to warn people, though, is it?”

“Perhaps not,” said Eardwulf. “But I have seen you tell people that you didn’t want to be touched or interfered with, only for them to ignore you. Perhaps they need more warning than words can deliver. And it is natural for you to decide you would rather stop bothering with spoken warnings if no one is going to listen to you.”

Sméagol had now partially dressed but was struggling to pull his tunic over his head. It had some lacing on the collar that had been left tied.

“Would you like me to help you?” Eardwulf asked.

“No, no!”

“Then I will do as you asked, keep my hands to myself, and not be bitten.”

“So Sméagol may bite when people doesn’t listen to him? He’s telling us to be naughty, gollum! Perhaps I’ll tell the King."

"He may behead me."

"Ss! We won't tell him, we won't tell the King."

"He will not really behead me."

"We won't tell him nothing! Ss, ss. So if we finds puppies he wants to look at- we must not go near the mother?”

“Indeed no- I will deal with the mother if she is still with the pups. Just tell me about it.”

He was still fighting his shirt. “Yes, yes. If there is puppies hidden somewhere we tells him. Ach! Help us, help us!”

Eardwulf loosed the lacing, and the collar slipped easily over Sméagol’s head. “There.”

Sméagol tugged at his sleeves and made fussing noises. 

“Is there anything else you need before I depart for the night?” Eardwulf asked. “Do you have any pain that needs to be seen to?”

Sméagol laid one of his cold hands ever-so-gently on Eardwulf’s shin, and looked up at him with his big, round, clear eyes. “Sméagol is old, and he forgets things, and does not always hear what the nice Men say to him.” As far as Eardwulf could tell, only one of those things was true. “But he thought he heard- yes, he thought that kind Eardwulf said he has brought us a present?” He blinked beseechingly. 

“Ah! I did not know whether I said such a thing or only thought about it,” said Eardwulf. “In fact I do have something. Let me see.” He reached into his pocket and produced the pouch of colored wax sticks. “Here, Sméagol- they are for drawing or writing. They’re quite waterproof and won’t melt or smudge in your hands.”

Sméagol took the items out of the pouch, sniffed at them, felt them all over in his hands, and without another word took them to his writing-table and began trying them. “Red, blue, green,” he muttered. “How did the Men make something so clever?”

“I am afraid I do not know how they are made.” He drifted closer to the table and looked over Sméagol’s shoulder. He was writing his name in different colors on a sheet of parchment.

Sméagol was so fascinated by the crayons that he had forgotten to thank Eardwulf. Indeed he seemed to have forgotten anything in the world but the crayons for the moment, which was a high mark of success. Perhaps he would even remain so amused that he would forget to investigate the nearby plumbing.

Eardwulf’s eye fell on a nearby piece of paper. “What is this drawing?” he asked. “Where did it come from?”

Sméagol did not look up. “Which one, which one?”

“The portrait.”

“That one. We do not know who that is, do we? He looks like he’s making a sour face, doesn’t he? The Lady drew it.”

“Which Lady?”

“The Lady! The one who bewitched us and made us sleep.”

Sméagol was quite adamant that some weeks ago a beautiful lady Elf had visited him and caused him to sleep for several days. It was true that he had slept, though he had woken up for short intervals to eat and drink, which he seemed to have forgotten. Eardwulf had at the time suspected that Sméagol had merely been exhausted and on the verge of catching cold, and had slept for the usual reasons that people sleep, and had dreamt about an Elf- perhaps because in his sleep he heard or smelled a visiting Elf by his window. 

He had never let on that he did not believe the story- he could always be wrong, and there was no harm in Sméagol believing his own account. In fact it would be well for him to be more comfortable with Elven visitors to the city. It was unusual for him to insist that an Elf was beautiful (and kind, and clever, even if she was also frightening and made Sméagol sleep, but he had forgiven her), and that made Eardwulf more inclined to believe she was not quite a real person. 

But it was a real drawing, and it was well beyond Sméagol’s abilities. It appeared to be a rough portrait of a Halfling with a fierce expression. Sméagol had called it a ‘sour face’, but Eardwulf thought it was the sort of face made by someone who had the unfortunate habit of glowering when he was fixed on some idea. “She drew this when she came to see you?”

“Yes, we was at our table, and she came in and sat with us, and asked if she might draw. Then she drew that! I don’t know who it is. I looked at it a long time, thinking she had set us a riddle. It is not Baggins, it is not Sam, it is not the Master, and it is not the other two, Meriadoc and Peregrin- so we don’t know it. But I do not think a Lady like that would make a mistake. So perhaps Sméagol has not solved the riddle. She said we might have a tutor…” He looked up from his new toys for the first time, and frowned. “I wonders who’ll pay for it. The King, I think she said. Yes, she was the sort of person a King would listen to, wasn’t she? Especially our King who listens to everyone, even little hobbits and Sméagol.” He bent his head back over his paper. “Does Eardwulf know, perhaps? Why is he asking about it as if it is something he thinks is important?”

The Elf had been sitting across from Sméagol at the table, and watching him scowl at his papers; that was the expression in the portrait. Eardwulf had certainly seen it often enough. He looked at his charge’s small face and pictured him with healthy flesh, normal skin and dark hair (in the portrait it was a little untidy- in life it was a great deal untidier and was also quite wet). The shape of his mouth and cheeks would be altered if he had a complete set of teeth- just so.

Sméagol had now put down his crayons and folded his large hands on the table. He looked up at Eardwulf, blinking innocently. “He is very fond of that picture. Perhaps he wants it?”

Sméagol’s eyes were large, clear and bright, gemlike and rather uncanny. The eyes in the portrait were less uncanny, but just as intense. Eardwulf studied them and said: “It was a gift to you, and is yours to keep or give away. However, I would, in fact, like to have this drawing if you don’t want to keep it.”

Sméagol eyed the portrait and scratched at his chin (it was sharp, and was hardly less so in the drawing). “It is ours, yes. The Lady gave it us. She was nice, and I likes having her present nearby, don’t I? That is why it’s out on the table. But then, I do not know who it is. Eardwulf looks at it as if he knows. But he would tell us who it was if he knew.” He reached for a yellow crayon and began scribbling busily. 

“I am not quite certain of who it is. I think it is someone I know,” said Eardwulf, choosing his words carefully. “I am fond of him, in fact. But I have never seen him look thus. I am only guessing.”

Sméagol blinked. “O? Who is it?”

“I don’t feel certain enough to tell you, in fact. But if I am right, you ought to know him yourself and it is… unfortunate that you don’t.”

“Sss, sss, now he is setting us a riddle. He cannot tell us we ought to know it and then take it away- I will think ‘who was that in the drawing, my precious?’ and wish I could have a look again.”

“Very well.”

“And it is ours,” said Sméagol. “It was a present.” 

“Indeed. It ought to be yours.” 

Sméagol picked up the blue crayon, made two large dots with it, and frowned down at the paper. He pushed it across the table at Eardwulf. “Who is that?” He had drawn a messy facsimile of a human face with a wild scribble of bright yellow beard and hair sticking off in all directions, with blue dot eyes. 

Eardwulf had never seen the plains of Rohan himself, but resembled his father a great deal. He touched his chin, which was coated with a short, wiry blond beard. There were of course other men in Minas Tirith with blond beards, even if it was not so common as dark hair, but none of them were in the room, and they tended not to look quite so ill-groomed as Eardwulf. 

“It is Faelon,” he said. Faelon could have been the archetypal Gondor-man with black hair and a smooth face (though his eyes were brown, not silver).

“Yes, of course it is Faelon,” said Sméagol with a wry sideways glance. “He is our favorite.”

It was a known caprice of Sméagol’s that he was alarmed and almost annoyed when someone laughed at his jokes, so instead Eardwulf gently tousled his thin hair- damp as it was, and feeling like water-weeds. Sméagol showed no acknowledgment of his touch, but scowled when Eardwulf took his hand away.

Eardwulf took that as a sign to deliver another pat on the head. “May I keep this?” he asked.

“O if it pleases him, yes. It’s not a clever drawing. It doesn’t look very much like him, does it?”

“On the contrary, I think everyone will recognize it at once.” It was crude, but Eardwulf didn’t know how to draw either and would not have done better.

He sighed as he carefully placed the folded drawing in his pocket. His purpose for coming had been accomplished and it was time to say farewell. If allowed his own way, Sméagol would never bid him to leave, but would simply go about his usual personal errands with Eardwulf in the room, making small talk as it suited him, and keep him here until dawn. “I am certain you have much to do tonight, and I fear I must sleep. I shall leave you now, Sméagol, if you do not need anything.”

“Going already? I suppose there is nothing,” said Sméagol. He yawned. If he had been wakeful from distressing dreams during the day, he might sleep in the night. No doubt he needed it.  (A thought occurred to Eardwulf. The Eldar were said to have subtle calming magics; suppose the lady who had drawn the portrait had also administered something to quell nightmares? That on its own might induce Sméagol to sleep longer and deeper than he normally did and account for his impression of events.)

“Farewell,” said Eardwulf. “Do not hesitate to send for me if you are in need.” Sméagol had never yet abused this privilege. He feared being seen as too much work to look after. 

“O we won’t. He must go now?”

“I fear I must.”

“Very well, very well, the Men knows best.”

Eardwulf went upstairs. He took the washtub and emptied it outside. He rinsed it out, shook out the excess water, and brought it back inside. Sméagol had come upstairs in his absence and was investigating the drain in the floor. 

“One last hello before I bid you goodbye,” said Eardwulf, watching the busy hands fiddling with the grate. There would be no harm done if he somehow removed the grate, it could merely be replaced. 

“Hello, goodbye. Where does it go, my precious? The hole in the floor?”

Saying that he didn’t know would be a dreadful error. It would make Sméagol more determined to explore to find his own answers. “The sewers, I should think.”

“How? Our cellar is under here, and the water does not flow into the cellar.”

“There is a pipe. It is too small for you. It is smaller than your best clothes, by far, and would fit you even more poorly than they.” He considered whether to put the tub back where it had been- the inconvenient spot on top of the cabinet- and decided to set it in the corner instead. 

Sméagol came over to him and began sniffing at the tub. “O!” he said. “Eardwulf’s handses are wrinkled from the wet. Poor Eardwulf. Perhaps he needs his gloves after all.”

“My hands will dry.” 

Sméagol put his teeth to Eardwulf’s hand. He touched them ever so gently to the skin, and withdrew, saying: “Nice Sméagol. Gently, gently! The Men has soft hands!”

“Not so soft as yours.” 

“O no! Nice hands,” he cooed.

“Sméagol, did you ask me about games because you would like me to play with you?” 

“Does he like to play?”

“I do. I must go now, but in future I can set aside a time to play with you. You need not find a game I like in order to play with me. I will learn your games if you wish to teach them to me.”

“But we can’t,” Sméagol pouted. “We don’t know how any longer.” He resumed his current game of touching Eardwulf’s hand with his teeth. It was no doubt really a test, to see if Eardwulf would frown or pull his hand away. Of course Eardwulf did not.

“Nice handses,” Sméagol said, and began clumsily stroking the back of Eardwulf’s hand. His unpracticed caresses were heavy and dragging and not entirely comfortable. 

Eardwulf did not correct Sméagol when he spoke in his own odd style- there were some who rebuked him when he said ‘we’ instead of ‘I’, or ignored him if he did not speak to them directly, but Eardwulf did not see the use. Neither did he see the use in telling Sméagol that he must use speech to convey what he wanted instead of tugging at a Man’s knees and whimpering when he wanted to be carried down the stairs. Those things harmed no one, and he believed such treatment would not teach Sméagol to speak Common like a nobleman. It was more likely to make him believe that people did not care about his wants. 

But Sméagol could not be allowed to form a habit of persuading people to stay with him longer by making himself pleasant to them, else no one would ever be allowed to leave his rooms. 

“Polliwog,” said Eardwulf, gently resting his un-occupied hand on the top of Smeagol's small, cold head, “I can see that you would like me to remain, but I regret to say that I cannot at present. I have had a long tiring day and must rest to make myself fit for tomorrow’s work.”

Sméagol drew back with a sigh. “So soon, so soon. He is sleepy, yes. It is time for sleeping, for Men, in the dark. Good night.”

“Good night, my friend.”

Sméagol followed him to the door and sadly watched him leave.

Suilorion was still sitting outside. Eardwulf would thank him for spending time with Sméagol, but not in the creature’s hearing (which had quite a range). Sméagol was likely to take it to mean that Suilorion was performing some unpleasant duty by giving him attention when in fact the old man clearly liked chess.

Suilorion saluted him on his way out. Eardwulf returned it. 

When he returned to his quarters, there was something waiting on his desk- a message with the royal seal. Bragger was sitting nearby, eyeing this item with keen interest. 

“Well!” Eardwulf said. “Have you been sitting there all along? And you let someone come in?” Bragger was a mastiff close in size to a pony, and took exception to anyone entering Eardwulf’s sleeping chamber, even the dog-boys who lived below in the kennels and had nearly equal claim to the room. 

Instead of offering any clues to the mystery, Bragger began to investigate the scents on Eardwulf’s hands. The dogs never seemed pleased with the way he smelled after visiting Sméagol.

“I am sorry, friend, but he needs my attention just as you do.” Eardwulf took off his vest and hung it up before sitting to read the letter. "And unlike you, he bathes himself when given water, and without complaint, at that."

As he walked back to the desk Bragger remained with the vest, sniffing it. He almost looked as if he were frowning. 

The handwriting of the message was not the King’s. Perhaps it was only his fancy, but Eardwulf thought there was a hint of scent from the parchment- not perfume. It was a fresh scent of night sky and clean air.

He shook his head. He had promised himself that he would be neither enchanted by, nor skittish of the Eldar who had begun visiting the city. That said, the Queen had quite a presence.

His first thought was that she wished to request that he lead a hunt, perhaps for the sake of visiting relatives. But in fact the letter was about Sméagol. She considered herself partly responsible for his well-being. She had visited him, and thought he was an intelligent creature who would benefit from the attentions of a tutor, as his wandering life had left him without the opportunity to receive the kind of education she believed he was capable of having. She wished to know Eardwulf’s thoughts on the matter.

Eardwulf sat at once to compose a reply. He wrote down the requisite salutations and greetings to someone of the Queen’s rank, and then for a minute his quill hovered over the paper. What was he to say? The Queen had been quite open and friendly in her letter, but she could address him as she wished- she was the Queen. He had not that same privilege.

Ought he to urge her to ensure that anyone dealing with Sméagol would know not to treat him as an imbecile or a mindless animal? No- she must know already that he was neither, or she would not see a reason to educate him at all. Should he insist that Sméagol did not need to be taught etiquette? No- as he looked over her words again, he saw that she had already stated she did not intend this and knew it would only serve to bore the creature. 

Eardwulf pondered and rejected a handful of other possibilities. Finally he wrote: 

It is vital that Sméagol be taught how dangerous it would be for him to interfere in any way with the city cisterns.