March 15th, 3019 of the Third Age. The White City of Minas Tirith.
The city stood on the edge of ruin.
After the catastrophic fall at Osgiliath, Gondor's last hope lay behind its aging walls. Sauron's Morgul host, vast as shadow and flame, pressed closer with every hour. Théoden of Rohan had not yet come. And Denethor, the Steward of the White Tower, had unraveled. As Pippin sang a soft Shire melody at his request, Denethor choked on his wine and collapsed, eyes wide with madness. In the confusion, blame fell upon the hobbit. No trial. No mercy. He was flung from the heights of the citadel.
Gandalf, powerless to stop it, whispered bitterly,"Oh no. Not another one."
Not another hobbit lost. Not again.
He remembered fire.
Long ago, before the war and before Minas Tirith fell under shadow, Gandalf had marched north with General Bilbo Baggins and two thousand hobbit legionnaires—trained, armored, and resolute. With them came the dwarves of Erebor, desperate to reclaim their mountain from the dragon Smaug. But Gandalf did not go for valor. He went for gold. As God-King of the Shire, his industrial nation starved for resources. Erebor's vaults had promised him the wealth to expand his citadel and fortify his rule. He could not say no.
Galadriel had mocked them.
She laughed at the weed-crowned helms of the hobbit captains, their short statures, their beetle-black eyes that squinted in the sun.
"Adorable," she said. "And wholly useless."
Gandalf had vowed to prove her wrong.
He failed.
Bilbo and his hobbits met dragon fire on the broken stones of Dale. Their legion formations—perfect squares of steel and discipline—melted under a single sweep of flame. Only Bard, the grim captain of Esgaroth, slew the beast. But by then the hobbits were ash and ruin.
So when Gandalf watched Pippin fall from the heights of Minas Tirith, framed in smoke and horror, the words left his lips not with surprise but bitter memory.
"Oh no. Not another one."
Faramir's valiant stand at the river ended in blood. His body was lost beneath the ruin of the last bridge to Minas Tirith, now fallen to fire. The siege had begun.
The onslaught was inhuman.
Tens of thousands of orcs surged at the walls. When ladders failed, their dead became stairways. Their bodies piled high, a grotesque tribute to their own relentlessness. Trolls smashed open breaches with clubs of black iron. Fellbeasts tore through towers. From above, twelve Nazgûl descended, their mounts shrieking through the skies. Men were snatched and dropped, their screams lost in the wind.
Gandalf led the defense with teeth gritted and blade drawn. It was not enough.
By the second night, the lower levels of the city were overrun. The second circle had fallen. The third teetered. The upper levels braced for slaughter.
Streets ran slick with blood. Children died beside soldiers. The orcs fed on the fallen where they lay. In desperation, Gandalf pressed into service anyone who could hold a blade. Old men. Shopkeepers. Boys.
He spoke to them as fire rose in the east:
"Courage, little ones. For your mothers, your kin. If you fall, they fall. So fight with all your heart. Fear not death—it is but another path. Beyond it lie white shores... and a far green country."
But even his voice, steady as stone, could not mend broken courage.Despair crept like frost.
Then a sound cracked the silence.
A horn.
Long, deep, unmistakable.
The horn of Rohan.
Hope turned its head.
From the eastern ridge, six thousand Riders of the Mark appeared like sunlight upon a storm. Their armor blazed, white and gold, and their line stretched unbroken from hill to forest. Their hooves struck the earth like drums of war.
And at their head, Théoden.
Bent by age no longer, he stood proud upon Snowmane. His voice tore across the field:
"Arise! Arise, Riders of Théoden!Fell deeds awake! Fire and slaughter!A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises!Ride now! Ride now! Ride to Gondor!"
He seized the great horn of his house and blew a note so fierce it shattered the morning calm. Horses screamed. Men wept. The mountains answered.
Thunder broke loose.
And then—they crested the ridge.
And saw the truth.
The Field of Pelennor, once vast and green, now churned black with shadow. No field at all, but an ocean of armor and flesh. A tide of darkness. Four hundred thousand orcs and Uruk-hai, packed so thick they blurred into one mass. From wall to wall, from gate to riverbank, they stretched—a grotesque impossibility. The earth could barely hold them.
The Riders slowed. Hooves faltered.
Silence crept into their ranks—not fear of battle, but of futility. The eyes of seasoned warriors widened. Mouths trembled. They had ridden to save a city, and instead found the end of the world waiting.
"There is no victory here," one whispered."Only death," said another.
They hesitated.
Then, like a mad prophet, Théoden surged forward.
His white horse reared. His voice cracked the sky:
"DEATH!" he roared.
The word echoed like thunder.
"DEATH! DEATH! DEATH!"
He turned to his men, face alight with fire.
"Ride now! Ride to ruin—and the world's ending!"
Madness seized them.
And they answered.
"DEATH!"
The cry passed like lightning down the line.
"DEATH!"
Hooves struck the earth. Shields were lowered. Spears angled forward. The sky darkened.
And the charge began.
Six thousand horses roared down into the valley of shadow. Like a hammer swung by a wrathful god, they fell upon the black sea.
The impact was apocalyptic.
Orcs were crushed like wheat beneath a scythe. Skulls shattered beneath iron shoes. Spears impaled two, three foes at once. The front lines of Sauron's army buckled like wet timber.
Éomer led the vanguard like a blazing spear, his helm streaked with sun, his eyes wild.
But the storm answered.
Black arrows flew.
The sky grew teeth.
Men screamed as bolts pierced armor and bone. Riders toppled. Some struck the earth and died on impact, necks snapped like twigs. Others lived long enough to feel the trampling hooves of their kin crush them into the mud.
Still they rode.
Blood puddled in ruts where hooves slipped and churned it into the grass. Bodies stacked upon bodies. Orc and man alike fell screaming into the chaos.
And then came the trolls.
From the writhing horde, a mountain of iron and flesh pushed forward. Orcs scrambled to make way as it barreled through their ranks—a massive troll, armor bolted to its hide, swinging a maul the size of a small tree. One of the Riders, a man named Cedric, caught sight of it as it emerged.
His breath caught in his throat. The thing was taller than any siege tower, its skin like stone, its eyes black pits of hate. Cedric barely had time to brace before the troll smashed a line of cavalry aside like twigs.
His spear shattered on impact. His horse screamed, its flank caved in by a flying orc body. Cedric tumbled through the air, landed hard. His ribs cracked. His vision blurred.
But still he rose.
He gripped a sword from the mud, blood-slick and half-broken, and stood before the troll as it bore down.
Behind him, the Riders screamed and died. Ahead, doom.
And from the treeline to the north, a new sound tore the air.
A warcry. Harsh. Wild.
The Dúnedain had come.
They charged in a ragged wedge, no horses, no banners. Just men. Dirty, bloodstained, grim. Their armor mismatched—mail taken from dead orcs, leather cured with ash, shields made of planks and scraps. Many wore no helms at all, only paint or blood smeared across their faces.
They came like wolves into the slaughter, screaming a warshout that chilled the bone:
"DRAUGA! DRAUGA! DRAUGA!"(To die, to die, to die!)
They fought with fury—not for victory, but for death. For the hope that the gates of the afterlife would open wide to warriors who fell with sword in hand. They were less an army than a tribe of war-mad revenants, inspired not by strategy, but by the belief that a glorious death was the highest gift a man could earn.
Cedric watched them crash into the orcs like a wave of ghosts. One Dúnadan hurled himself onto the troll, slamming an axe into its shoulder again and again until the beast swatted him aside like a fly.
But another followed.
And another.
And soon the troll was on its knees, roaring, blood pouring from wounds no single man could have dealt—but that a hundred had.
The Riders saw this. Cedric saw this.
And in that mad, hopeless moment, something in him broke.
He lifted his broken sword.
And screamed.
Above the chaos, the sky tore open with a scream.
From the clouds, death fell.
The Witch-king of Angmar descended.
His Fellbeast dove with a shriek that split the heavens, a sound so sharp it made the blood in men's ears run cold. Its wings stretched like the sails of a doomed ship, its eyes burning pits of malice. Where it passed, the air grew heavy with dread. Below, horses bucked and bolted, men dropped to their knees, and even orcs faltered, knowing their master had arrived.
Snowmane reared beneath King Théoden, struck with terror. The beast came down, claws outstretched, and with a thunderclap of flesh and fury, it smashed into the white horse. Théoden was hurled through the air like a broken toy, landing in a twisted heap of shattered armor and splintered bone.
And then—Éowyn came.
Clad in silver, blood-slicked and defiant, she stood alone before the monster. Her cloak torn, her shield arm trembling, yet she did not yield. Her helm shadowed her face, but her eyes blazed with wrath.
Beside her, unseen by many, stood Merry. Small. Frightened. But resolute.
The Fellbeast lunged.
Éowyn did not flinch.
With a cry that carried across the field, she drove her sword upward into the beast's neck. Flesh split, blood hissed as the creature gave one final, piercing scream—and collapsed in a heap of wings and bone.
But from the corpse, the Witch-king rose.
Taller than any mortal man. Broader than memory had described. His armor was black as coal, etched with runes that pulsed like embers. Muscles, real and spectral, bulged beneath the plates. His very presence warped the air around him.
His helm was forged in the shape of a skull crowned with jagged horns. His voice was silence—his will, terror.
In one gauntleted hand, he held a flail.
Not a weapon—an executioner's promise.
The chain was thick as a man's wrist, the iron head the size of a boulder, covered in burning spikes. Each link dripped smoke. With a slow, deliberate swing, he let the weight fall to his side—and the earth cracked beneath it.
No words were spoken.
None were needed.
The flail came down.
Éowyn lifted her shield.
It exploded.
Her arm snapped, bone piercing skin. She screamed as she was thrown back, skidding across the blood-soaked ground like a rag doll.
Merry cried out and charged.
The Witch-king turned. The flail lashed sideways.
It caught the hobbit full in the chest. There was a sickening crunch. Merry's body flew and hit the ground hard. He did not rise.
Éowyn coughed blood, struggled to her knees.
The Witch-king loomed above her like a storm made flesh. He raised the flail again.
She stared into the dark mouth of his helm. There was no face. Only blackness. Hunger.
And still—she stood.
With the last of her strength, she gripped her sword and screamed. One last cry.
But the flail fell first.
It struck her helm with the force of a mountain.
Metal cracked. Her neck wrenched sideways. Her sword dropped from limp fingers.
And Éowyn, daughter of kings, Shieldmaiden of Rohan, died beside her king.
The battlefield howled.
And the Witch-king turned, unchallenged, toward the White City.
The charge of Rohan became a grave.
Only Éomer remained—bloodied, roaring, swinging his blade with fury and grief. His armor cracked, his helm lost, blood streaming down his cheek from a wound he could no longer feel. Around him, the Dunlendings broke.
Their rusted axes and salvaged spears could not hold. Their courage—shallow and borrowed—shattered under the weight of the tide. They had come to fight for Gondor. To redeem old sins.
And died screaming for it.
The orcs howled as they fell, laughing as they fed on the broken bodies. Flesh was torn from bone before the last breath escaped the lungs of the fallen.
Above it all, Minas Tirith trembled.
Within its battered walls, Gandalf stood high on a balcony above the broken gate. His white robes were stained grey with soot and blood. His eyes—once bright with fire—now sunken, shadowed. Below him, a small crowd of terrified men clutched broken spears and chipped swords. Boys barely grown, fathers with missing fingers, men whose armor no longer fit.
Gandalf did not go with them.
He did not speak of valor.
He only pointed.
"Go."
They hesitated.
"GO!"
And they went.
Down the slope. Through the shattered gate. Into the jaws of the enemy.
They did not last long.
They were torn apart within minutes. Their screams echoed up the stone corridors of the city. Orcs leapt on them like wolves, dragging them down. They were not slain in battle. They were devoured.
Gandalf turned away.
On the field below, Éomer fought to hold what remained of the Rohirrim together. His voice, hoarse and desperate, rose above the din:
"Hold the line! Hold! For your brothers! For your king!"
But no king stood beside him now. No horn sounded in reply.
The Pelennor Fields had become madness.
Smoke and fire blurred the sky. Corpses formed barricades. Arrows fell like black hail. Orcs climbed over the dead to kill the dying. Wargs dragged screaming men into the shadows. Trolls rampaged unchecked, smashing lines of cavalry with every swing of their crude weapons.
The line would break.
It was only a question of when.
And then—from the south—came silver.
Banners of swans.
Armor gleaming even beneath the smoke-choked sky. A phalanx of knights upon white steeds, their lances lowered like spears of moonlight.
The Swan-knights of Dol Amroth.
Two thousand strong.
And at their side, the battered, grim-faced cavalry of Gondor. What remained of the southern fiefs. The old blood. The proud.
At their head, a figure that caused men to gasp and straighten where they stood.
Boromir.
He rode tall in the saddle, clad in black and silver. A great cloak billowed behind him, and the White Tower was emblazoned on his breastplate. His shield bore the dents of many battles. His sword was drawn.
He had not ridden north to Rivendell. No.
He had ridden south—into the forgotten corners of Gondor, into the broken halls and shattered towers—and he had gathered every lord, every knight, every farmer's son who still believed in fire and sword.
And now he had come.
Not with diplomacy.
But with death in his eyes.
He lifted his sword, voice like thunder:
"GONDOR! FORWARD!"
And like madmen, they charged.
The Swan-knights, precise and beautiful, their hooves pounding like the drums of fate. The Gondorian cavalry, grimmer, dirtier, but no less fierce. And Boromir—at their head—his sword shining, his cry echoing across the field.
They did not pause. They did not break.
They charged into the black tide—into the sea of orcs, into the mouth of the abyss.
To their deaths.
And yet—they charged.
A silver wave crashing into the black sea.
Their hooves tore the earth. Their spears pierced armor and bone. For a moment, the tide shifted. Orcs fell back, surprised by the sudden fury. Boromir led from the front, his blade a blur, cutting a path through the enemy like fire through dry grass.
The Rohirrim saw them.
And something flickered in their hearts.
Not hope—not quite. But something close.
Encouraged by the sudden arrival of brothers-in-arms, some regrouped. Éomer lifted his sword and gave a ragged cry. A few riders rallied to him, dragging themselves free from despair.
Even Gandalf's eyes—though heavy with sorrow—narrowed with new focus.
It would not turn the tide.
They all knew that.
There were too few.
Too late.
But still—they charged.
And for a fleeting moment, the storm paused.
Not in fear.
But in acknowledgment of the madness, and the courage, of men who refused to fall in silence.
As the tide of battle worsened, even more despair fell upon the Men of the West.
For from the haze over the Anduin, more sails appeared—dozens, then hundreds. Black sails, tall and cruel, bearing no heraldry of honor or house. They bore the mark of the Eye.
The fleets of Umbar had come.
At the sight of them, cries rose from the walls of Minas Tirith. Some wept. Some prayed. Others simply fell silent, knowing what approached.
Not long ago, Umbar had still belonged to men. Corsairs, yes—but mortal men nonetheless. Mariners, traders, pirates of pride and ambition. But even they had been consumed.
For Mordor was no longer a shadow hiding in the East.
It had become an empire.
The Twelve Nazgûl, riding at the head of black legions, had scoured the South and the East. Khand, Harad, Rhûn—fallen. Cities razed. Thrones shattered. Peoples enslaved or butchered. Umbar was one of the last.
Its harbor burned for seven nights.
Now, no men lived there.
Only orcs.
Orcs of the sea. Salt-scarred, maddened, armored in the bones of drowned foes. Their ships were rebuilt in nightmare—spikes and flame, sails of flayed hide. They sailed not with purpose, but with hunger.
They had come not to seize, but to devour.
The men on the field turned their eyes toward the river. Many fell to their knees. Even the hardened among the Rohirrim and Gondorian knights felt cold creep into their bones.
They were already drowning in the tide of Mordor.
And now the sea itself had turned against them.
Gandalf, high upon the citadel, watched the black sails approach with grim silence.
He knew what they were.
He had warned of this day.
He had hoped—foolishly—that it would never come.
But the map of the world had changed.
And Mordor ruled the East and South.
All who once stood beyond Gondor's borders now marched beneath the Eye.
There were no reinforcements coming.
Only death, in ever more inventive forms.
However, neither side knew then that Aragorn, the Grey Company, and the Army of the Dead, accompanied by the hobbit legions of the Shire, had already vanquished the fleet of Orc Corsair raiders in the Battle of Pelargir.
The ghosts of Oathbreakers, bound by shame and vengeance, had partially repaid their ancient debt to Isildur by descending upon the Corsair ships like a plague of silence. Orcs lost their minds at the mere sight of them—many leapt screaming into the black waters, others drowned themselves in barrels, or tore open their own throats rather than face the dead. Ships drifted unmanned, their sails slack, their decks slick with madness.
Once the slaughter was done, Aragorn gave orders.
The ships were seized. Crewed not only by rangers and the dead, but by ten thousand hobbit warriors of the Shire—grim-faced, armored in bark and bronze, helms crowned with wheat and weed. From the southern fiefs of Gondor, more men boarded—the last fighting sons of the coastlands, rallied by Aragorn's fire.
Then the black sails turned north.
To war.
They arrived with the sun rising over the Anduin.
And they struck where the enemy least expected—from the rear, from the river.
The Mordor host had been pressing hard against the walls of Minas Tirith, when suddenly the rear lines were shattered by fire, arrows, and steel. The hobbit legions disembarked in tight phalanxes, launching volleys into the backs of the orcs. Their war-ponies hit the flanks of Warg lines like wrecking stones. Frodo rode at their head, sword raised, face grim. Samwise led a demolition crew that lobbed firebombs beneath siege engines, blowing them apart from within.
At the center came Aragorn himself—Andúril ablaze, cutting through Uruks like wind through leaves.
The Army of the Dead followed.
Spectral blades fell like whispers. Orcs collapsed without a sound. The dead tore through the heart of Mordor's host, severing the forces near Minas Tirith from those along the river.
Panic surged through the orcs.
But above them, the sky screamed.
The Witch-king, atop his black steed, descended like a thunderbolt. Around him flew the remaining Eleven Nazgûl, circling like carrion birds.
And then—his magic surged.
A pulse of black energy rolled across the field.
The Army of the Dead faltered.
The orcs, now snarling with sudden resistance, found their weapons no longer passed through mist. The Witch-king's sorcery allowed them to strike back. Ghostly limbs staggered. Phantoms fell.
Still, the living fought on.
The Men of Gondor, Rohan, and even the battered warriors of Dunland pressed forward. Infantry lines pushed relentlessly. Cavalry squads used the opening to cycle charge—hit and pull back, hit and pull back again.
The morale shift was real. For once, the orcs were not advancing.
They were retreating.
Not routed—but pulled back.
Organized. Disciplined. Not by their will, but by the Witch-king's command.
Step by step, they fell back toward Osgiliath.
There, waiting like a shadow of doom, stood the Mouth of Sauron.
Upon his towering Caragor, flanked by monstrous Graug riders, he watched the field with pitiless eyes.
Around him, fresh legions of orcs gathered.
He did not run.
He waited.
He rallied the broken.
And prepared the next assault upon the White City.
The battle was over by sunset.
The fields of Pelennor, once green and vast, were now caked in blood and ash. The cries of the dying had faded into silence. Smoke drifted lazily over a sea of bodies—orc, troll, man, and hobbit alike. Most of the enemy lay dead or dying, a scattered few fleeing eastward like carrion birds.
But the West had not won.
Sauron's forces had suffered only a setback—a pause.
For every orc slain, ten more waited behind the mountains. The Men of the West had struck a blow, yes—but a blow that had cost them dearly. A wound dealt to a leviathan. It would bleed. But it would not fall.
Rohan was shattered.
King Théoden lay broken beneath the hooves of his steed. Éowyn, their flame, extinguished. Of the six thousand Riders who had charged that morning, fewer than a hundred still stood.
The men of Dunland were gone.
Forgotten. Buried beneath the weight of larger stories. Their bodies lost in the piles of the fallen, their names left unspoken. No songs would be sung for them.
Within the city, the defenders were nearly gone.
But new banners flew now—the white tree of Gondor united beneath Aragorn's rule, bolstered by his command and the reinforcements he had summoned from the south. The shattered remnants of the fiefs and coastland strongholds had arrived too late to save the day—but in time to hold the walls.
Minas Tirith would not fall this day.
But even that victory felt hollow.
On the high walls, Gandalf stood beneath the banner of the reunited kingdom, staring eastward, as if trying to will the answer into existence.
Where was the Ring?
Nearly three thousand years had passed since Isildur lost it. No eyes had seen it. Not even Sauron's. The Dark Lord, for all his terror, grasped at shadows, casting armies into the wind in hopes of finding what fate had buried.
Gandalf had hoped for more.
He had brought the hobbits not because he knew the way—but because he had hoped to find the way.
He had hoped that along this path, something would stir. That perhaps one of them—small, kind, brave in a quiet way—might become the key. Might prove Galadriel wrong. Might prove him right.
But Bilbo had burned in dragonfire. Frodo had turned to iron. Sam was weary. Pippin had been cast from a tower. And Merry was broken in battle.
The hobbits had fought bravely. But they were still small. Still too few.
And now, Gandalf's faith faltered.
In the throne room of the White City, Aragorn sat slumped upon the stone seat that once held his ancestors. The silver crown lay beside him, untouched. His hands covered his face. Blood streaked his fingers.
He trembled.
And then, in a voice broken by grief, he whispered:
"Why… why is it like this? Men of Rohan, men of Gondor—my brothers. Within them now I see only fear. It takes the heart of me."
He stood slowly, his voice rising as his sorrow curdled into rage.
"The day has come. The courage of men has failed. We have forsaken our friends. Broken the bonds of fellowship. The Elves have abandoned us. The strength of men is drained. And now... now comes the hour of darkness. The hour of shattered shields and broken hopes, when the Age of Men comes crashing down."
He slammed his fist into the stone armrest.
"But even still… it is not this very day."
"This day, I still breathe. And I wait. For what? For death? For the end? For one last charge into a night that never ends?"
His voice cracked.
"Fuck. Fuck. Dammit! Where is the strength of Men? Of the dwarves? Of the Elves? And those fucking useless hobbits—where are they when we need them?!"
His scream echoed through the hall.
But no one answered.
Only the wind moaned through the broken windows.
And outside, the sun dipped below the horizon.
The war was not over.
Only paused.
***
Unknown to Gandalf—or anyone else in Middle-earth—five hundred and fifty-six years ago, something happened that the Ring did not intend.
It was found.
Not by a king.Not by a warrior.Not even by a thief.
But by a hobbit.
Smeagol.
A Stoor by birth.Strange by nature.
He was taller than most of his kind. Pale-skinned, with large, clear blue eyes and messy, straw-colored hair. His voice cracked when he spoke, strange and halting—always muttering under his breath, repeating words, making little choking sounds like "gollum, gollum."
He was different.
He trained obsessively. Ran through the hills, swam in the coldest streams, lifted stones until his body hardened. His long ears twitched at every sound. His eyes saw far. He was fast. Strong.
But none of it mattered.
The others still mocked him.
They called him names. Tripped him. Spit when he passed. They called him "Gollum," after the odd sound he made when he was upset. No matter how he tried, he was never truly one of them.
Only one soul ever truly stood by him—Déagol, his cousin. His companion. His friend.
They fished together. That was their peace.
And on Smeagol's thirty-third birthday, they went again—just like always.
It was meant to be special.
Smeagol dove into the green river, laughing as he chased a trout, teeth bared in joy.
But deep beneath the surface… something gleamed.
Caught in the roots of a tree, nestled in golden silt.
The Ring.
He surfaced, gasping, holding it high in his hands. Shaking.
Déagol saw it.
And something in him changed.
His eyes darkened. His hands clenched.
He reached for it—not in wonder, but in hunger.
They argued.
Then they fought.
Déagol lunged—biting, scratching, snarling like a beast. Smeagol didn't want to hurt him. He couldn't.
And so—he swallowed it.
The Ring.
Right down into his belly.
Déagol screamed in rage. Drew a knife. Tried to kill him.
Smeagol ran.
But it wasn't over.
Later that night, Smeagol collapsed. The Ring burned inside him. He lived.
His family did not.
They had eaten from the same pot—poisoned.
Déagol had poisoned the stew.
His mother. His brothers. His sisters. All gone.
The grief became a scream that never left his chest.
At dawn, shaking, broken, Smeagol rose.
He found Déagol standing in the village square. Laughing. Pretending nothing had happened.
And Smeagol acted.
He took a sharpened fishing pole.
And impaled him.
From the base—up, through the spine—out the mouth. Lifted him into the air before the entire village.
Blood dripped like sap. The crowd screamed.
And Smeagol did too.
"Damn you! You—you fucking bastard! Déagol, I hate you! I HATE you! You made me do this! You spread those rumors! You were the first to call me Gollum! GOLLUM! GOLLUM!"
"You traitor! I HATES you! I HATES YOU!"
They watched, horrified.
Stoor hobbits gathered in force—bows, pitchforks, hounds foaming at the mouth. They wanted his head.
For Déagol was loved.
And Smeagol—Gollum—was not.
They chased him into the wild.
He ran into the forest of Mirrormere, where the trees grew tall and close, where the light faded and the wind whispered in languages long forgotten.
There, Gollum vanished.
And none—not Gandalf, not Aragorn, not even Sauron—knew what was born in those woods.
Something broken.
Something twisted.
Something that remembered everything.
And whispered to itself in the dark:
"Gollum… Gollum… Gollum…"
Covered in mud from the riverbank, Gollum crouched low beneath the underbrush.
He didn't want this.
He really didn't.
But when he saw the face of a former neighbor—bow in hand, scanning the brush, looking for his head—something inside him snapped.
They had come to kill him.
His people. His kin.
And now they wanted his blood.
His breath slowed.
His pulse steadied.
His eyes—bloodshot, trembling—locked onto the target.
Quiet as shadow, he slipped from the bush, crept behind the Hobbit, and with a flash of his fish knife, he sliced the throat deep.
The Hobbit's hands jerked to his neck, mouth opening in horror—but no scream came. Only wet, red gurgles. Then—collapse.
Gollum didn't flinch.
He spat on the corpse.
Then—he climbed.
Perched in a tree, crouched like a panther, he waited.
Another came. A familiar face.
He dropped silently.
Crack. Throat. Gone.
Another body hit the moss.
Blood soaked the roots.
From Gollum—no one was spared.
Not the dogs.
Not the hunters.
Not even the wives of Déagol, who had come with blades and rage.
They were the same now.
Traitors. Every last one.
He had tried to be good.
He had tried to belong.
And this was how they repaid him?
His fury grew monstrous. Blacker. Heavier.
Inside him, something changed.
His stomach burned.
The Ring, once hidden deep in his gut, began to fuse. Melt. Dissolve into him.
Rage had become his alchemy.
He was no longer a Hobbit.
He was a weapon.
Arrows struck his shoulder—he tore them free and ran.
Wounds that would fell any man closed in seconds.
His hands—so small once—crushed.
A fat hunter stumbled into his path.
Gollum struck.
One punch dropped him.
But he didn't stop there.
He dragged the body.
To a flat stone.
Forced the mouth open.
And then—
Stomped.
Once.Teeth shattered.
Twice.Lips split.
Again.Skull cracked.
Again.Brains spilled.
He took the hunter's bow.
Then disappeared.
The forest became his.
He loosed arrows into legs. Made them crawl.
Then he came—slow, deliberate. With stones. With fists. With teeth.
He didn't kill them quick.
They didn't deserve quick.
Only pain.
Only fear.
Only him.
Soon, they broke.
Their screams rang through the trees.
"MURDERER!""Run! RUN! He's mad! He's a monster!""Oh gods—he's coming—he's COMING!"
Gollum blinked.
They called him...
Murderer?
After everything Déagol had done?
After the poison?
After his family?
They had done this.
They had made him.
And now—they would see what they had made.
One by one.
They actually called him a murderer.
Even though it was merely self-defense.
Gollum. Gollum. Gollum.
Those bloody bastards. Those lying, shrieking bitches. How dare they?
His breath came ragged and furious as he sent the last of his arrows flying through the trees. Then he hurled stones—heavy, jagged rocks that broke bone and split bark. The ones who hadn't already run screamed.
A few fell near the edge of the forest.
And Gollum was there—fast.
He smashed their heads in as they begged for mercy.
"No! No, please, Smeagol, don't! It's me, remember? I gave you free beer sometimes—you can't kill me! You psycho fuck!"
But the words meant nothing.
His fury was too deep. Their pleas bounced from his mind like rain off stone.
He sang as he struck:
"La-la-la-laaa, I can't hear you! La-la-la-laa—please die under my feet, and my beautiful rocks and knuckles!"
Each strike echoed.
And then—something strange happened.
As he was bashing in one of their skulls, his hand began to glow.
Light.
A soft white pulse crawled from his chest, down his arm, into his palm—and into the rock.
With every strike, the rock changed. Hardened. Brightened.
Until, suddenly, it shattered against the corpse's skull—not in shards, but in radiant fragments.
He blinked.
Stunned.
He grabbed another rock.
He focused.
The warmth grew from somewhere near his heart, flowing through him—into the stone. It pulsed, it shimmered.
The rock began to transform. Pale at first, then brilliant—pure white crystal.
It glowed like a candle. Soft. Gentle. And it healed. He could feel it.
He slipped the crystal into his pocket.
And for the first time in days, he paused.
Breathing heavily.
He was alone now.
Truly alone.
The others would come—more hobbits, maybe even Men. Perhaps Elves. They would not let this go.
So he turned to the mountains.
Moria.
He had heard of it. Old and dark. Empty.
Maybe there, in the silence and stone, he could make a home.
A new life. A new world.
A home lit not by torches, but by his own crystal stones—his light.
Banished.
Hunted.
Alone.
He would disappear beneath the mountain, and they would never find him again.
"Gollum... Gollum... Gollum..." he muttered.
And into the shadows, he vanished.