River Anduin – Smeagol's 33rd Birthday
The river was calm today.
The water lapped in lazy waves, tugging gently at the reeds and roots along the banks of the Anduin. Fat clouds drifted across the sky like sleepy cattle. Dragonflies buzzed lazily, weaving between shafts of sunlight. A perfect day for fishing.
Smeagol sat cross-legged in the shallows, golden-blonde hair dripping around his face like wet straw, his long ears twitching as they caught the whispers of the water. He blinked slowly, large blue eyes wide and unblinking, locked on the surface. His lips moved with a murmur that barely rose above the river's hush.
"Gollum… Gollum… come here, fishy fish…"
He smiled.
His chest rose and fell with childlike peace. His arms were thick with muscle, grown from years of work and training. His stomach rippled with the faint outline of an eight-pack, tight and compact. He was proud of that—though no one ever said anything. No one clapped for his strength. No one said "well done."
Except maybe Déagol.
Déagol, who now lay on a warm rock nearby, shirt undone, chewing on a reed, two girls sitting beside him laughing at some joke Smeagol didn't hear.
Smeagol grinned anyway, turning to look at them with hopeful eyes. "Déagol," he said brightly. "Maybe I'll catch two this time. One for you!"
Déagol didn't even glance up. "I'm sure you will, cousin," he said lazily. One of the girls giggled.
Smeagol turned back to the water, still smiling.
He had caught fish with his teeth before. Everyone said it was weird. The girls said it was "disgusting." But Smeagol liked it. The chase. The silence. The cold. It made him feel useful. It made him feel strong.
And today was his birthday.
That had to mean something.
He took a deep breath, ears flicking once, and dived beneath the surface.
The world turned green and silent.
Smeagol's eyes opened beneath the water, wide as saucers. He swam low, weaving through weeds, his feet brushing smooth stones. A school of fish darted past, silver blurs. He opened his mouth wide and snapped, catching only water.
Then he saw it.
Not a fish.
Something else.
Something golden. Gleaming. Nestled beneath a twisting root, half-buried in silt.
Smeagol blinked. His hands reached forward slowly. The gold called to him, but he didn't hear it as a voice. Not like others would. To Smeagol, it was just... shiny.
Pretty.
He surfaced a moment later, gasping, the water running in rivulets down his face. And in his palm—
A ring.
Small. Gold. Perfect. No rust. No age. No scratch.
Smeagol smiled wider than ever. His voice sang like a boy with a birthday cake.
"I found a present!"
Déagol looked up. The girls fell silent.
Smeagol ran up to the riverbank, still dripping, his feet leaving wet prints on the rock. "Déagol, look! The water gave me a birthday gift! Look how shiny it is!"
But Déagol's eyes had already fixed on the ring.
He stood slowly, brushing the girls aside. "Let me see it."
Smeagol held it out with an open palm. "See? It's mine. I found it."
Déagol's expression changed.
Just slightly.
His grin—always so warm, so charming—curled tighter, as if it had been painted on with too much pressure.
His eyes—once soft and gleaming with laughter—turned flat, sharp, like glass ready to crack.
Smeagol tilted his head, still smiling with pure, childlike glee. "You like it?"
He held the Ring up with both hands, reverently, like a frog caught in spring. "It's shiny. I found it. The river gave it to me!"
Déagol nodded, but it was stiff. "Give it to me."
Just four words. No smile this time.
Smeagol blinked. "No… but… I found it. So… finders keepers."
He beamed at his own logic, proud to remember the rule. It was one of the few things he always remembered.
If you find something, and no one saw it first, and you take it home, it's yours. That's fair. Right?
Déagol stepped closer. "Smeagol," he said low, voice like the scrape of a blade on bone. "Don't be dumb. You don't even know what that is. I'll keep it safe."
Smeagol nodded eagerly. "I'll keep it safe too! I'm good at hiding things. I can bury it. Or put it under my pillow! No one will take it. Not even the girls. Not even—"
He hesitated. "Not even you."
Déagol's jaw flexed, tight. The vein in his neck throbbed.
"Smeagol. Give it to me. Now."
Smeagol's smile faded.
His fingers curled slowly around the Ring.
Then loosened.
Then curled again.
His lips parted, but no words came.
Déagol's eyes burned into him. The girls had gone silent now. They were no longer laughing. One was already backing away.
"But…" Smeagol whispered, eyes glossy with confusion. "But it's my birthday…"
Déagol took another step.
Smeagol's breath caught. His stomach flipped.
Then, in a moment of pure, instinctive panic—he did the only thing that made sense to him.
He opened his mouth.
And swallowed the Ring.
One gulp. No chewing. It slid down his throat like a stone.
Gone.
He wiped his mouth, blinking innocently. "There! Now you can't take it, and we won't fight! Right? It's safe! Inside!"
Silence.
Déagol just stared.
His eyes were wider now—but not with awe. With rage.
"You... you idiot," he hissed, voice trembling with disbelief. "You really did it... You freak…"
Smeagol tilted his head again. "Now we don't have to share. It's mine. Forever! See? See, Déagol? We don't have to—"
"You're not keeping that," Déagol growled, stepping forward. His fists were clenched, knuckles white. "You swallowed gold, Smeagol. Real gold. You don't even know what you've done."
"I didn't want you to be mad," Smeagol said softly, backing up one step. Then another. "I just… wanted to keep it."
Déagol lunged.
He slammed into Smeagol, tackling him onto the stones with a sharp crack of ribs against rock.
Smeagol cried out in surprise, flailing as his back scraped raw on the gravel.
Déagol climbed on top, one knee pinning Smeagol's chest, the other digging into his arm.
"I'll cut it out if I have to!" he roared, spittle flecking his lips. "I'll gut you like a trout!"
Smeagol's eyes went wide with terror. "No—no, please! Déagol, stop! We're cousins!"
But Déagol wasn't listening.
His fingers wrapped around Smeagol's throat, nails digging into soft skin.
His thumbs pressed hard, choking off breath.
"I'm not letting you keep it, you freak!" he screamed. "You dumb freak! You don't get to have anything! Not ever!"
Smeagol's hands flailed weakly. He wasn't fighting back.
He was crying.
"I'm your friend," he gasped through crushed breath. "Déagol… please… you're my friend…"
But Déagol kept squeezing.
Smeagol twisted violently, slipping loose with a gasp, and kicked out with both feet.
Déagol toppled sideways.
Smeagol scrambled to his feet, blood running from his neck, face smeared with dirt and panic.
And then—he ran.
Barefoot. Muddy. Crying.
Through the trees. Through the bushes. Into the shadows of the woods.
The world became blurred with tears.
His legs were strong. His lungs were fire. The Ring throbbed inside him like a heartbeat.
He didn't understand.
Why had Déagol done that?
They were cousins.
They were friends.
Déagol was supposed to be his only friend.
---
That Night…
He returned to camp with mud on his knees and blood on his arms.
He walked slowly, feet aching, body trembling. He stepped through the tall grass, past the cooking fires, past the flickering lanterns. Something felt wrong.
Too quiet.
The other tents were dim. No music. No chatter.
He ducked into his family's tent.
His smile faded.
His eyes went wide.
And then they filled with tears.
> His mother slumped over her stew bowl, lips blue.
His brothers lay on their backs, hands on their bellies, eyes wide and glassy.
His sisters were curled together near the tent wall, motionless.
All of them… still.
The air reeked of sweet meat and death.
And in the center of the tent, next to the cold firepit, sat the empty stew pot—Déagol's stew, shared the night before.
Smeagol dropped to his knees.
He screamed, but the scream broke halfway and became a gurgle.
Then a sob.
Then another.
And another.
And finally—he collapsed to the ground, curled like a child, face pressed into the earth, the Ring warm and silent in his gut.
The sounds that came from him were not words.
They were just echoes.
Just gurgles and sobs, choking and endless.
"Gollum… Gollum… Gollum…"
The name clung to the dirt like blood.
---