In the Beginning, There Was Hunger
Before the trees had names and the rivers ran with maps, Durin the Deathless wandered.
He was the first to awaken beneath the stars, beard fresh with dust, eyes shining like chips of flint. Alone in the world, with no kin, no name, and no god to worship but the stone beneath his feet.
He felt the pull of the mountain—the weight of it, the promise in it. Not of peace. Not of sanctuary.
But of worth. Of permanence. Of ownership.
He wandered north, driven by hunger—not of the belly, but of the soul.
---
The Lake of Fire
And then, one night, he came to a valley cradled between snow-tipped peaks. A lake rested there—still and dark, like a giant's unblinking eye.
Durin approached.
He looked down.
And there, in the glass-black water, he saw his reflection.
But it was not just his face.
Above his head blazed a crown of fire—the reflection of the stars twisted into a halo of burning light. His breath caught. His knees trembled.
Where another might have blinked, might have wept, might have looked away...
Durin smiled.
> "The mountain has chosen me."
> "I am to be king."
He dropped to one knee, plunged his fist into the soil, and marked the ground.
> "Here will rise my kingdom."
> "The world will kneel to the King Beneath the Mountain."
And to ensure that none forgot this moment, he had his masons erect a monument: The Stone of Durin, placed beside the lake.
Upon it, he had his name etched in runes so deep they'd outlive the wind, followed by titles of his own invention:
Durin the Deathless
King of Stone and Fire
Voice of the Deep
Breaker of the Earth's Bones
Every deed he performed afterward—real or exaggerated—was carved onto that stone. His victories. His laws. His visions. And soon, those of his descendants. It became a sacred site, not of wisdom—but of ego.
---
He Dug. And Dug. And Dug.
Durin and the few followers who had trickled north began carving into the rock.
At first, they were few. But Durin sent word.
He promised riches beyond measure.
He promised a home untouched by time, war, or gods.
He promised every dwarf a throne—if they were willing to earn it with blood and sweat.
And they came.
By the hundreds.
Then the thousands.
But nothing was free.
To enter Moria, you paid a tax.
To live in its halls, you paid a toll.
To mine its stone, you owed tribute.
Durin sold plots of stone as if they were land, and carved contracts into every wall.
> "The stone is mine. You may borrow it, if you bleed enough."
---
Slaves of the Deep
When the dwarves hungered for more hands, they turned outward.
They purchased slaves from human raiders—Wildmen, Easterlings, and condemned Gondorians. Others were born into it, their chains lighter but still iron.
They were used to dig the Eastern Mines, tunnels so vast and hot that even dwarves would not enter.
When a slave died, another was brought in.
No names.
No graves.
Only numbers scratched into ledgers and marked on mine doors.
The dwarves told themselves it was necessary.
But the truth was simple:
> Greed doesn't wait.
And death was cheaper than rest.
---
Children of the Stone
In Moria, family meant function.
Sons were born to wield hammers.
Daughters were trained to count coin and manage stores.
Love was not given—it was earned by production.
A child who brought profit was praised.
A child who cost coin was shamed.
Fathers did not dream of watching their children grow into heroes.
They dreamed of retirement, funded by their son's labor and their daughter's marriage contracts.
And if a child failed?
They were cast out. Sent to lower mines. Forgotten.
---
The Dream Realized
Khazad-dûm became a marvel—the crown of dwarven greed.
Halls so vast they broke the horizon.
Columns so thick they were mistaken for mountains.
Vaults of gold that echoed with nothing but silence.
But beneath it all—deep beneath the deepest mine, something stirred.
And when the whispers began, Durin was already old.
And already mad.
He said the mountain spoke to him.
He said the fire beneath wanted to crown him again.
And so they dug deeper still.
---
The Mirrormere – Foothills of the Misty Mountains – Pre-dawn
---
The path had grown silent.
Even the wind dared not speak.
Gollum climbed the last slope on torn feet, his chest rising slow and steady. Blood clung to his skin like warpaint, now dried in layers of black and brown. His hair, once golden, was now a matted crown of gore—streaked with dirt, blood, and strips of flesh he hadn't noticed. A sliver of someone's scalp hung tangled near his ear.
He didn't care.
His eyes burned bright.
And as the hill broke, the earth opened into a valley of stillness.
And at its heart—the lake.
The Mirrormere.
Still as obsidian.
Not a ripple disturbed its surface.
Gollum stepped to the edge and crouched low. He blinked, unsure at first if what he saw was real. His reflection stared back—twisted, filthy, crowned in carnage.
And above his head—
stars.
The early dawn sky twinkled in the water, and the points of light hung around his brow like diamonds forged in blood. The wind shifted. The world slowed.
And for a moment…
he wasn't Gollum.
He was something older. Something seen before.
---
Durin's Shadow
He remembered the stories—old tales murmured by Wildmen beside drunken fires.
A dwarf-king. A fire-crowned madman. Durin the Deathless.
How he came to this lake, countless ages ago, and saw his reflection crowned by the stars. How he claimed the mountain in his name. How he carved a kingdom beneath it. How he taxed the world and ruled from halls too high to be seen.
And Gollum stared into the same water.
Saw the same light.
> "Durin saw the crown… and made a kingdom…"
"So what am I, if I see it too?"
---
He leaned closer to the water.
His breath fogged the surface.
His reflection flickered, then sharpened.
There he was: a monster. A god. A beast of blood and light.
Brain stuck in his hair. A tongue piece on his shoulder. A jawbone scar running down his chest.
And above all that…
a crown.
The stars shimmered above his head.
Not in mockery.
But in reverence.
His hands began to tremble—not in fear, but awe.
> "Yes…"
> "Yes, I see now… I was made for this…"
> "They cast me out. They hated me. But the mountain calls me. It knows me. It sees me."
---
The Declaration
Gollum stood slowly.
His muscles coiled beneath the drying blood.
His core pulsed—white, gold, red—burning just beneath the skin.
He raised his arms to the sky.
And he screamed.
Not in pain.
But in purpose.
> "I AM GOLLUM!"
> "KING GOLLUM!"
> "CROWNED IN STARS, FORGED IN BLOOD!"
> "THIS MOUNTAIN IS MINE!"
His voice echoed across the valley.
The trees trembled.
Far below, a bird took flight, startled from sleep.
And deep beneath the roots of the world, something old… stirred.
---
The Mirrormere – Just Before Dawn
---
The wind was cold, but Gollum didn't feel it.
He stood at the lake's edge, arms still high, breath steaming. The starlight crown still shimmered on the water's surface. His reflection stared back—a thing of power, of violence, of divine mutation. Hair matted with blood. Chest thick with muscle. Veins glowing with buried light.
He tilted his head at his reflection.
Then, with a grin curling across his face, he bent his arms and flexed—hard.
His biceps bulged. His shoulders rolled. His chest heaved.
He struck another pose—arms overhead, like a god of old statues, then twisted to one side, showing his thick back and honed waist.
> "Strong... yessss," he muttered with approval.
"Not soft. Not small. No more Moonboy. No more runt."
And then—
His stomach growled.
He blinked.
Glanced down.
And paused.
---
The Awakening
He pulled his trousers down to relieve himself—
And paused again.
His glowing veins didn't just travel across his arms and chest.
They led downward—white, red, gold. His core had changed more than his strength or skin. He had grown there, too.
A glance was enough to confirm it: he had become… more.
But Gollum?
He just squinted.
> "Strange."
> "Bigger. Heavier. But not hungry that way. Not now."
He let the breeze touch him briefly, uncaring, almost indifferent to the body others might call divine.
He let his trousers fall and stepped forward into the lake.
---
The cold water rushed over him, shocking but refreshing. It reached his knees. Then his thighs. Then his waist. He dove forward, sleek and powerful, cutting through the water like a blade.
He hunted beneath the surface, eyes open, breath held.
A silver fish darted.
He twisted, turned—caught it in his bare hands, bit into it, raw, bones cracking in his jaw.
Blood clouded the water.
He smiled.
---
Above the Lake – In the Trees
She had followed him in silence.
She had watched him crown himself. Heard his scream of kingship.
But she had stayed in the shadows.
Until now.
Until…
Tauriel's knees buckled.
She clung to the branch, breath caught in her throat. Her bright blue eyes—eyes that had never seen a man fully naked—were wide. Her lips parted. Her heart thumped.
She had seen it all.
> His back. His legs. His scars. His shape. His manhood.
Not delicate like Elven men.
Not cold like Legolas.
This was something brutal. Heavy. Wild.
A body made not for dancing or poetry—but for war. For protection. For mating.
Her womb twisted. Her thighs trembled.
She sank to her knees on the branch, legs open just slightly, her cloak pooling around her hips. Her breath hitched. One hand pressed to her mouth. The other pressed lower, against the heat that had bloomed in her belly.
She bit her lip.
Hard.
Almost enough to draw blood.
Her eyes never left the water.
> "That's what a man looks like…"
"That's what it means to be claimed…"
"That… that's what I need…"
---
She didn't move for a long time.
She couldn't.
Not until the water calmed.
Not until he left.
Not until the ache in her womb faded to something manageable.
She whispered to herself—barely a breath.
> "Gollum…"
---