In the Elder Days of old, a hairy Dwarf named Durin—first of the Longbeards—set forth from his home in Mount Gundabad. He wandered southward along the eastern edge of the Misty Mountains, past jagged crags and whispering winds, until he came to the wooded borders of Lórien.
There, he turned west, following the silver thread of the river Celebrant upstream. Past the lesser woods of Mirrormere he trudged, until he stood at last in the shadowed valley of Azanulbizar, beneath the bones of the mountains.
Exhausted, he gazed into a still, shimmering lake—and in its perfect reflection, he saw something that stopped his breath.
Seven stars.
A crown, bright and cold and beautiful, resting atop his own weary head.
Struck dumb with wonder, he named the lake Kheled-zâram, the Mirrormere, for it was clear and deep as a mirror wrought by the gods. At first, Durin had hoped to name it Durin's Mirrormere, and declare it his personal mirror, for grooming beard and ego alike—but his wife, wiser and only slightly less hairy, talked him out of it.
So the name remained, and the lake became sacred to all Dwarves who came after. And where he had stood in awe, they raised the Stone of Durin—a monument to beginnings.
In the caves above the valley, Durin and his kin began to build.
They raised the Great Gates of Khazad-dûm, and carved the First Hall, which opened onto a narrow stone bridge arcing over a deep chasm. From that humble beginning, they dug—sweating, swearing, mining upward to the Seven Levels above, and downward to the Seven Deeps below.
To the East lay the heart of their civilization: mighty halls, forges, and stone-carved homes, warm with firelight and echoing with laughter. To the West stretched the mines—vast and brutal—where less hairy Dwarves and the Hobbits of old toiled in the dust and dark, picking at the bones of the mountain for treasure.
In those days, travelers could pass through Khazad-dûm—if they paid. First the toll to enter the Western mines, then another to exit into the Eastern halls, and finally, if the Elves allowed it, they could wander down into the golden woods of Lórien. Most never made it that far.
Still, trade flourished. Gold glinted in every hall. Beards were thick, and the women thicker. And for a time, the world was good.
But mortals are mortal, even those as stubborn as Durin.
He died. And the glory of the Longbeards faded into the smoke of memory. The lesser kings came, and with them came darker days.
Now, beneath a clear, star-choked sky, another figure climbs the same mountain path Durin once took—not hairy like the Father of the Dwarves, but determined nonetheless.
And once again, Khazad-dûm—now known by another name: Moria, the Black Pit—is about to be awakened.
Not by kings.Not by dwarves.But by something else entirely.
***
Thousands of years had passed since Durin the Deathless first gazed into the waters of Kheled-zâram and saw the crown of stars reflected above his head—a sign of divine kingship.
Now, under that same starry sky, another figure knelt at the lake's edge. Filthy, blood-soaked, and breathing heavily like a beast, Gollum stared into the still surface of Mirrormere.
And there it was.
The stars shimmered above—and in the water, they gathered around his head like a jagged crown. His reflection was grotesque: eyes red with rage and exhaustion, blonde hair matted with blood, flesh streaked with grime and what might have been brains, his skin a mottled mess of bruises and dried blood. But Gollum did not recoil. No shame stirred in him. No regret, no guilt.
Instead, his lips curled into a smile.
The crown of stars felt... right. Beautiful. Divine.
Yes... yesss... he had been chosen. Chosen by something greater than the weaklings that had mocked him. The gods themselves had seen him for what he was. The future king of the mountains.
His breath quickened, shallow and ragged. The blood still soaked into his skin like a badge, like a title. Each stain spoke of a victory, of vengeance long overdue.
"They see us," Gollum muttered, voice thick with twisted reverence. "They see Gollum... Yes, yes, Gollum, strong, powerful... powerful king."
Feeling the heat of his journey rising within him, Gollum tore off his dirty, bloodied shirt with a hiss. The fabric, once simple and ragged, now seemed to peel away as if unworthy to touch him. His chest, covered in grime and fresh blood, swelled as he flexed.
His muscles—so unnatural, so distorted—seemed to rip at his skin, growing, bulging, like twisted stone carved into flesh. His veins bulged like ropes, thicker than they should be, pumping something more than blood—anger, power, hate. His body seemed less like flesh and more like a monstrous creation, as though the very earth itself had begun to shape him.
His limbs were packed with muscle, a grotesque parody of strength. He was swole. His physique was grotesque—more muscle than even a dwarf or a man could possess, far too much for a mere hobbit. His pale skin stretched tight over his swelling form, veins throbbing, his body seeming ready to tear itself apart from sheer force. It was a sight that might have made even the bravest dwarf recoil in fear.
But Gollum was not afraid.
Gollum was powerful.
With a low, guttural laugh, he looked back at his reflection, his eyes wide with manic glee. "Look at us, Gollum," he whispered, grinning manically. "Look good, yes, yes. Gollum, mighty, mighty king. Hahaha... yes, yes!"
His voice trembled with exhilaration, but there was something darker underneath it—a coldness, a twisted sense of satisfaction.
But as he flexed again, admiring himself, something began to unravel within him. The sound of his own voice, repeating his name over and over, twisted back into something far darker than before. Gollum. Gollum. Gollum. The words began to lose their shape, losing their meaning, sliding back into something primal, something raw.
His mind flitted back to the past—the pain, the loneliness. The whispers.
Though Gollum spoke with strange confidence, something gnawed at him, deep in his chest. It was familiar—unwanted, yet it clung to him like a parasite. His speech—those strange, broken sounds—had come again. No, it was worse than before. It had grown louder, more fractured, like shards of his shattered mind scraping against the walls of his consciousness.
"Gollum Gollum, yesss, we are strong, mighty king, Gollum strong," he whispered with a twisted grin, but his voice faltered.
A wave of discomfort washed over him, his mind flickering back to that long-forgotten memory. A baby, barely able to walk, his first true pain—the fall. The blow to his head. The world spinning, blurring at the edges. In his infantile panic, he had tried to cry, but the sounds that escaped him... they weren't cries. They were only noises. Broken, jagged syllables, as though his very body rejected the simple act of calling out.
"Wau wa wallau... balla la..."
He twitched violently as the memory seized him. His hands balled into fists, shaking. He could still feel the confusion, the helplessness. He could still see his own small form writhing on the floor, the pain pulsing through him. But it was his voice—that hideous, incoherent noise—that haunted him most. His mother had rushed to his side, but by then, it was too late. He wasn't crying anymore. He was mumbling.
"Wallum, ga ga gal lam, gallam, gollum gollum..." the words had slipped out of his baby lips. They felt wrong, foreign to him, as if his mind had failed to connect the dots. His words hadn't made sense—they still didn't.
His mother had been frantic. She hadn't understood. But it was Déagol who had heard him. Déagol, with his sly smile, his sneering eyes, had been there, in that moment of weakness.
And it was Déagol who had run off to the neighbors, speaking of the "poor, slow-witted hobbit." Speaking of Smeagol—the simpleton, the fool. The one who couldn't even speak properly. The one who would be laughed at. Smeagol, who was so broken, so weak, and needed protection.
"Retarded..." Gollum spat, his mouth twisted in disgust. "Weakling... pathetic..." The words had come back to him, swirling like a storm in his mind. How Déagol had used him—used his condition to paint himself as the noble hero, the protector of the fool. The good hobbit who cared for the broken one. Gollum's own suffering turned into Déagol's triumph.
The rage churned within him again, hot and suffocating. That treacherous, lying little bastard, Déagol. The one who had always looked down on him, who had smiled and told stories of how weak Smeagol was, how foolish he was. The one who had taken advantage of him, of his trust, of his vulnerability.
Gollum's fists clenched, his nails biting into the skin of his palms. He didn't care anymore about the pain. The rage had consumed him, turned him into something else, something darker.
That fucking Stoor sack of shit!
His breath quickened as a new thought flared in his mind, raw and visceral. Déagol, always a liar. Déagol, who had used his kindness, his pain, to make himself appear noble—to elevate himself in front of the others.
The betrayal... the betrayal had never stopped burning. And now, the world seemed to burn with him.
Fury surged through him as his thoughts grew more twisted. He was strong, he was king, but it didn't matter, did it? Not when he was still haunted by Déagol's words, still haunted by those broken noises from his childhood. Still mocked, even now, for something that had been out of his control.
"Gollum Gollum, Gollum wa wa walala Gol lum."
The repetition twisted inside him, a primal mantra that he couldn't escape. He could feel it—the suffocating weight of his fractured thoughts, the twisting of his very identity. His past was a chain around his neck, dragging him down into the abyss.
He had been broken. He had been abandoned. He had been used. And in the end, he had killed—he had killed for the Ring, for the power, for the crown he imagined himself wearing.
And still, the words—the broken words—lingered.
Furious, his eyes flickered with an unnatural glow. His blue eyes, once so vibrant, now burned a hellish red. The memories, the rage, all of it coalesced into a fevered storm within him. Déagol. His betrayal. His own shattered mind. It all spun together like a web of madness, closing in on him. There was no escape.
Gollum didn't even notice his hands were trembling. Didn't notice as his pants fell to the ground in his fit of rage, exposing himself to the world in his rawest, most vulnerable form.
He didn't care. He was strong. He was king. He was Gollum.
But the memories—the truth—still clung to him, suffocating him.
With a final scream, Gollum leapt into the cold water, desperate to wash it all away. The blood, the memories, the twisted thoughts.
But even as the water closed around him, he couldn't escape. The stars above him continued to mock him, their cold light casting his reflection back at him. He wasn't the king he imagined. He was broken.
And the rage, the insanity, never stopped.
***
Unknown to Gollum, his movements and violent actions within the forest of Mirrormere had not gone unnoticed. A young, red-haired Silvan Elf maiden had been there, hidden in the shadows, a silent witness to his ruthless deeds.
But this wasn't how it was supposed to be. She hadn't meant to be here, not on this path. She had been on her way to visit her cousins in Lòrien. If only she had been able to make him notice her, take her, claim her as his own. Perhaps then, she would still be in the Woodland Realm, among her kin. But now... now she was here.
Why was it that Legolas, and all the other Elves for that matter, were so blind to her needs? Her name was Tauriel, and she was beautiful—there was no denying that. With her lithe yet curvaceous figure, she had a youthful, alluring presence that made many a heart flutter. Yet, despite all her gifts, there was an emptiness inside her that none of them seemed able to fill.
Desperation gripped her. She had tried, in vain, to capture their attention—yet it was always for naught. And so, driven by a deep, unfulfilled longing, she had resorted to a reckless plan. She had faked drowning in the Enchanted River, hoping for a heroic rescue, a chance to make him notice her.
Her plan should have worked. She imagined it: Legolas, ever the noble Elf, would spring from the trees above and leap into the river, pulling her from the depths. He would carry her to the riverbank, his strong arms cradling her unconscious form. And then, in his noble attempts to save her, he would kiss her—her first kiss. She would pull him in closer, surprising him with a passion he hadn't expected.
At first, he would struggle, bewildered by her sudden, bold actions. But soon, she would charm him. Their lips would meet, their tongues would tangle together in a dance of desire, and before long, she would be his—her wish fulfilled, her dreams realized.
She wasn't entirely sure how it worked, but she was certain that in that moment, it would all come together. Just like the wild man at the edge of the forest had once pinned a girl to the ground, stealing her lips in a fierce, overwhelming kiss. That moment had been so raw, so passionate... the girl had cried out, begging him to stop.
"No, please don't... I don't want to become pregnant..." she had pleaded, but the man had simply ignored her cries, his love for her evident in his every action. It had been beautiful, unrestrained.
Of course, Legolas had arrived just in time to kill the man with a single, well-placed arrow, saving the girl. But Tauriel had always wondered—did that girl become pregnant from the kiss, or was there something more to it all? Something deeper, something the Elves would never understand.
Oh, if only Legolas hadn't shot that man. Then, perhaps, she would have understood more about the world and the mysteries of life—the mysteries of intimacy. Perhaps then, she would have known how babies were made, how life unfolded in its most primal and beautiful form.
Just why, why did Legolas have to notice? Why did he have to see through her deception at the riverside? She had wanted it to be perfect. The moment he saw her—truly saw her—it could have been everything. She could have been his. But no, instead, Legolas had come close, and in the final moment, his sharp eyes had pierced through her act.
With a harsh slap, his fury erupted.
"How dare you do this?" he had bellowed, his voice thick with anger. "I trusted you, Tauriel! My father adopted you into our noble house of Greenleaf, and this? This is how you repay us? I am your brother! Have you no shame? You dirty—"
His words had stung, cutting deeper than any blade, and with that, she had been sent to Lórien, banished from the Woodland Realm for a time.
But as much as she tried to understand, to come to terms with it all, she couldn't. She couldn't hate them. Not really. Not even Legolas. But she felt something more powerful: frustration. A desperate, gnawing frustration that had consumed her in ways she never could have predicted.
And then, as if the Valar themselves had heard her cries, something unexpected had happened. There, in the depths of the forest, in the darkness of her need, she had found him. Gollum. A creature so wild, so untamed—he was everything they were not.
He was decisive. He didn't hesitate. He killed, and there was no second thought, no hesitation. He had crushed the little Hobbit heads with a brutal efficiency that made her heart race. His strength—how it had surged with every movement, every action—was something she had never seen before, even in Legolas.
And those eyes... that voice, filled with hate and hunger, so raw. His long ears, his pale skin that gleamed in the moonlight, and his body—muscular, ripped with a power unlike anything she'd witnessed. Those legs, thick as tree trunks, his whole form a testament to something primal.
And then, there was the undeniable truth—his raw masculinity. It was something she couldn't look away from. The sight of him, half-dressed, his body rippling with each movement, had awakened something deep inside her.
A feeling unlike any she had known before.
She could feel the heat in her stomach, the warmth spreading through her body as she watched him. Her legs trembled, her heart raced, and she found herself biting her lip, unable to look away. A hunger she hadn't even realized she had was now clawing at her, desperate to be sated.
Inexperienced as she was with such desires, Tauriel was unsure of what was happening to her, but there was no denying it. She wanted him. She wanted him in a way that consumed her, a desire so deep, so urgent, that it overpowered everything she had known.
She didn't care about Legolas, or the Elves of Lórien. They had failed her. None of them had understood her, had seen her needs. But Gollum, strange as it was, seemed to be the answer. He was raw, unrefined, untamed—and that was exactly what she craved.
If the Elves would not give her what she needed, then she would find it elsewhere. She would go to Gollum.
***
With a primal grunt, Gollum shot out of the clear, cold waters of the lake, his powerful legs propelling him onto the grassy shore. The splash of water echoed around him as he landed, fish clutched in his teeth, its scales glistening under the moonlight. His sharp teeth sank into the fish's body with ease, and with a ferocious rip, he tore its stomach open, blood and guts spilling onto the earth as he devoured it.
For a moment, the fish wriggled, gasping for air, but Gollum was relentless. His teeth sank deeper, and with a single bite, he severed its head from its body, swallowing it whole—bones, eyes, and all. His throat bulged, muscles rippling as they worked to crush the remains into small, digestible bits.
Unbeknownst to him, Tauriel, the red-haired Elven maiden, watched from the shadows, her breath catching in her throat. Her slender, feminine hand covered her lips in stunned awe, while the other hand, almost involuntarily, wandered lower, brushing her own lips in a dazed, instinctual response to the raw power before her.
Gollum, oblivious to her gaze, flexed his muscular arms for good measure, a subtle gesture that seemed to exude confidence. He then ran his wet, long blonde hair back, his movements sharp and deliberate, as if the world around him had become his stage. With the half-eaten fish tucked into his pocket, alongside the strange light stone, he began his ascent up the mountain, his bare feet crunching the earth beneath him.
He no longer wore shoes—or a shirt. The fabric had long since been discarded, a distant memory of a life he had left behind. His skin, pale and slick from the water, glistened in the moonlight, but he felt no chill. Instead, he felt a strange warmth from deep within him, an unnatural heat that pulsed through his veins.
It was as if, after taking the Ring, his body had become something else entirely—something stronger. There was a rhythm to his movements now, a powerful, unyielding energy that he couldn't quite explain. His legs were thick and strong, a testament to the raw power he now carried. And his backside, taut and firm, rippled with each step, a constant reminder of the strength within him.
He was no longer the timid, broken creature he once was. He was something new. Something hard. Something unshakable. And he reveled in it, striding confidently forward, oblivious to the watching eyes that traced every movement, every flex of his muscles.
Tauriel crouched behind a thick bush, her body trembling as she watched Gollum through the branches, her eyes wide and full of awe. She had never seen anything like him before. His powerful, muscular frame seemed to ripple with raw strength, every movement confident and untamed. As he walked away from the shimmering waters of Mirrormere, toward the looming gates of Moria, he looked every bit the manly king she had longed for—like a ruler destined to claim his throne.
Her heart raced, thumping loudly in her chest as her legs grew weak beneath her. The mere sight of him, so unapologetically masculine, sent a rush of heat to her cheeks. She wanted nothing more than to call out to him, to step forward from her hiding place and meet him. To be near him. To be with him. But she was paralyzed, shy and inexperienced, unsure of how to approach someone so powerful, so… overwhelming. Her knees buckled under her, and she instinctively clutched the bush for support.
She stayed hidden, feeling the warmth of embarrassment flush across her skin. Like a shy lover, she couldn't tear her gaze away from his retreating form. There, in the distance, he walked—his figure growing smaller with each step, yet to her, he was a giant. The man she had unknowingly yearned for, a creature both terrifying and magnetic, as if he were meant to conquer the world, and maybe, just maybe, her heart as well.
Unable to look away, she could only watch in reverence, her heart fluttering with an intensity she had never known. His every step seemed to resonate with her own unspoken desires, and in that moment, she knew she would follow him, no matter where he went.
Gollum walked steadily, his bare feet slapping against the cool earth as he moved away from the tranquil shores of Mirrormere, where the lake's surface shimmered like a mirror beneath the cold starlight. The great stone of Durin rose darkly in the distance, standing sentinel before the mighty Eastern Gates of Moria. The air was thick with the scent of ancient stone, and the deep silence of the mountain pressed in on him from all sides, broken only by the rustle of his movements and the soft ripple of the lake behind him.
As he drew closer to the gates, the towering structure seemed to grow larger with every step. The ancient stones of Moria had not felt the touch of the Dwarves for centuries, and the Eastern Gate, though battered by time, still stood proud and formidable. It was wide and heavy, its craftsmanship beyond Gollum's reckoning, each block of stone precisely cut, engraved with long-forgotten runes that seemed to pulse faintly under the moon's light.
Gollum's heart quickened with excitement. He had heard the old tales—of the mighty Dwarves who had once called Moria home, of their vast halls, their treasures, and their great works. He had heard of the darkness that had driven them out, the shadow of the Balrog, the ancient demon of fire. Now, the gates stood ajar before him, inviting him in to claim this kingdom for himself.
With a hiss, Gollum stepped through the threshold, his eyes wide and eager. The first hall of Moria stretched before him, its vastness nearly overwhelming. The ceiling rose high above him, lost in shadow, and the stone floor was cracked and worn, a testament to the passage of countless years. Ancient columns, each taller than the tallest trees in the forest, stood in silent rows, their intricate carvings eroded by time but still unmistakably Dwarven in design. Some had fallen, their shattered remnants scattered about the hall like forgotten relics of a once-great civilization.
The light stone in his hand glowed faintly, casting long shadows on the dust-laden floor. As Gollum moved deeper into the hall, the stillness of the place settled around him like a heavy cloak. The air was thick with the smell of age and decay, and the silence pressed in on him, broken only by the faint rustling of his movements.
It didn't take long for Gollum to notice the first signs of the Dwarves' tragic retreat. Bones, charred and broken, lay scattered about the hall, the remains of those who had fought valiantly against the fire-wrought terror of the Balrog. Their armor, once gleaming with Dwarven craftsmanship, had been twisted and burned beyond recognition, left half-buried in the dust. Here and there, fragments of shattered weapons—axes, shields, spears—littered the floor, discarded in the hasty retreat.
He stepped carefully around the bones, his heart pounding in his chest. The Dwarves had fought here, a desperate battle to defend their kingdom from the flames that had consumed it. But in the end, the darkness had overwhelmed them. The halls were now empty, save for the echoes of the past.
"Aaahh, Gollum, Gollum," he muttered to himself, his voice a harsh whisper against the silence of the hall. He paused, running his hand over the dust-covered stone walls, feeling the cold, ancient surface beneath his fingertips.
The walls here, like those in the outer halls, were carved with intricate patterns of Dwarven design. But what struck Gollum most was the emptiness, the absence of life. The Dwarves had been driven out by fire, chased by the very thing they had once revered. The Balrog had come from the deep places of the world, and in the end, the Dwarves had been forced to flee.
Gollum's heart swelled with determination. He had no fear of the dark places—no fear of the ancient shadows. He was no fool; he had no time for legends of monsters and flames. He was here to claim what was his, to take this kingdom and mold it in his own image.
As he continued deeper into the hall, the flickering light from his stone illuminated a strange sight. Broken shields and melted armor were scattered like the remnants of a great feast, yet something else caught his eye—a glint of metal half-buried in the dust. A Dwarven axe, its blade cracked and worn but still sharp enough to catch the light. Gollum crouched down, his pale fingers brushing over the weapon, admiring the craftsmanship despite its damage.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to sit on the throne of Moria, to rule over the mountain as its one true king. The thought consumed him, filling his mind with grand visions of power and glory. He would claim the halls, reclaim the lost treasures of the Dwarves, and one day, perhaps, even rise above them.
His eyes gleamed as he stood, the echoes of the past ringing in his ears. The halls of Moria, long abandoned, were now his for the taking. The world would know his name. Gollum, the King Under the Mountain.
Soon, Gollum came to a wide passage leading deeper into the mountain. The path narrowed as it stretched toward a long, looming staircase that ascended toward the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. His steps echoed softly in the silence as he moved forward, the faint glow from his light stone illuminating the dust-choked air. The scent of ancient stone and decay lingered, thick and oppressive.
At the foot of the stairs, Gollum's eyes caught sight of more skeletons, their bones twisted and broken in unnatural angles. These were not the remains of warriors, but of civilians—Dwarves who had fled in desperation, perhaps even in their final moments of life, crushed by the weight of their retreat. Their long-forgotten wagons lay abandoned on the ground, the wood rotted away to dust, leaving only twisted iron frames half-buried beneath the ash and rubble. A few scattered belongings—tattered cloaks, cracked pots, and rusted tools—lay forgotten in the dirt, decaying further with each passing year.
Gollum paid little mind to the macabre sight. These bones, these items, they were nothing to him. His gaze was focused upward as his legs flexed, the muscles in his calves tightening with the effort as he began to climb the stairs. With each step, dust flew into the air, rising in clouds around him, and Gollum reveled in the exercise. His legs were strong, powerful—each climb up these long, ancient steps made him feel more capable, more unstoppable. He relished the physical exertion, his body becoming as hard and unforgiving as the stone that surrounded him.
The stairs wound upward, higher and higher, until at last Gollum came to the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. The narrow stone span stretched over a deep chasm, its far end obscured in shadow. The bridge seemed to have been designed with defense in mind—its width was barely enough for a small cart to pass, and it was clearly meant to allow only a single line of attackers to cross at a time. Gollum stood for a moment at the edge, his sharp eyes taking in the narrowness of the passage and the immense drop below. He could imagine how easily a well-positioned defender could pick off any who dared to cross, sending them plummeting into the abyss below.
Gollum's mouth curled into a sly grin. A challenge, he thought, his fingers tightening around the light stone. But it wasn't a challenge that worried him; no, it was merely another obstacle to overcome, another step toward claiming this mountain as his own. He stepped onto the bridge, his bare feet light and sure as he crossed to the other side, the ancient stone beneath him cool and unyielding.
Once across, he entered the Second Hall of Moria. Unlike the vastness of the First Hall, the Second Hall was narrower but much longer, its walls lined with great columns of stone, some of which had fallen or were now cracked. The distant echo of his footsteps filled the hall, bouncing off the stone like the memories of a time long gone. The air here was even more stale than before, thick with the scent of decay and neglect.
To his left, Gollum noticed an old armoury—or perhaps it had once been a guardhouse. Rusted weapons hung on the walls, their edges dulled by time, and shields lay scattered about, their once-proud insignia faded beyond recognition. The iron fittings had long since corroded, and the shelves were now little more than dust and fragments. It was a place where the last defenders of Moria had made their final stand, where the Dwarves had fought against the flames that had driven them from their halls.
Despite the grim scene, Gollum's curiosity was piqued. His gaze flickered toward the other tunnels that branched off into darkness, wondering where they might lead. But this one, the armoury, was the closest, and he was eager to explore further. Without hesitation, he moved toward it, his heart beating with excitement as he passed the threshold into the long-abandoned chamber.
Entering the guardhouse, Gollum's eyes scanned the small, dimly lit space. The room was sparse but telling, with beds of stone, old racks that once held chainmail and hardened Dwarven armor, and weapons hanging from the walls—rusted and worn by time. Everything was still, frozen in the moment of abandonment. One door led to a small dungeon, its walls adorned with chains—chains large enough for men, women, and even smaller ones, likely used for prisoners.
Gollum's curiosity flickered. Why had no one come here? If there was an evil still lurking in the darkness of these depths, it certainly wasn't visible now. The items in this room, the armor, the weapons—coins, he thought with growing excitement as he discovered a desk filled with old Dwarven currency—were all here, seemingly untouched, waiting for someone to claim them. It was treasure, just sitting there, free for the taking.
His thoughts were interrupted, however, by something far more pressing. Defending it all. The mountain was vast, and he could hardly protect it alone. He would need subjects, a few, enough to guard the most strategic points—like the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. But how could he find them? Where could he find them? The need for bodies, for allies, was becoming clearer in his mind.
Torn by this dilemma, Gollum moved out of the guardhouse, his thoughts still churning, when he was unexpectedly greeted. Before him stood a tall, striking Elven maiden, her red hair flowing and eyes wide with wonder. Tauriel. She stared at him in awe, as if caught by the very sight of his presence. For a moment, Gollum stood still, his gaze narrowing on her.
She stood so close—only a head shorter than him—and he could see the confusion, the curiosity in her expression. She wanted to speak, wanted to do something, but she was frozen. He could feel her gaze washing over him, the weight of it pressing down on him like a heavy, silent expectation. He could hear her thoughts, or perhaps just imagine them. This was the man, the beast she had been seeking. This was him.
But Gollum's patience had long since run thin.
With a furious snarl, he lunged forward, and in one quick motion, delivered a brutal uppercut to her chin. The force of it knocked her out cold, her body crumpling like a ragdoll as she collapsed backward, tumbling down the stone steps of the guardhouse entrance. Her fall echoed in the stillness of the halls, a faint thud marking her descent.
Gollum stood over her, his bloodshot eyes burning with rage. Foam frothed at the corners of his mouth as he hissed in fury.
"Damned Elf! Why do you make me do this? Why do you all insist on trespassing in my kingdom?!" His voice trembled with the rawness of his anger. "Gollum, Gollum, Gollum!" He spat, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
Without hesitation, he jumped down the steps, his feet pounding against the stone as he grabbed Tauriel by the long, silky strands of her red hair. He dragged her up the stairs with terrifying strength, her limp form barely making a sound as it scraped across the cold stone.
He threw her into the dungeon—his cell, as it were—and quickly chained her up. He would wait. He would let her awaken in her new prison, and when she did, he would make her regret entering his halls without permission. He would make her understand her place in his new kingdom.
Gollum, the King Under the Mountain. He was strong. He ruled this place now. No one, not even an Elven maiden, would dare defy him.
He had claimed Moria for his own, and he would not be overshadowed by any trespassers. He would be acknowledged—he was the ruler here now.
God damn it, he was Gollum.