Gollum stood alone.
In the flickering glow of the hovering lightstone, the old bones seemed to lean toward him, as if listening. The walls pressed in—not physically, but with weight. The weight of time, of memory, of greatness long gone.
His breath hung in the air like mist. Even that felt intrusive, too loud in a place where even echoes sounded ashamed.
The barracks stretched before him—a relic of command, a place where voices once barked orders, where guards sharpened axes and cleaned armor, where jokes were whispered over ale and brothers argued over cards.
Now?
Desks warped by rot.
Weapons fused to rusted brackets.
Bunks caved inward, frames bent like old spines.
No laughter. No oaths. No orders.
Only dust.
And him.
---
He had walked the halls.
He had seen the width, the height, the reach of it all.
And now he stopped to think.
> This wasn't a camp…
Not a Wildman village with fire pits and wolf hides.
Not a Gondorian fort with stiff walls and proud gates.
This was something older. Vaster. Forgotten.
A continent beneath the world.
The First Hall alone could house a hundred families. The Second? Thousands. Whole cities could rise within these walls. Farms. Forges. Temples. Barracks.
He could imagine it. The streets. The lightstones like stars overhead. His people. His guards. His children…
And deeper, further still, miles of dark stone and lost light.
He could feel it in his bones—the truth of it.
Moria was not a ruin.
It was a throne buried in silence, waiting for someone mad enough to claim it.
---
And yet…
All of it was empty.
His—but hollow.
His mouth twisted.
> I cannot guard this.
Not alone.
What if they come? Thieves. Killers. Smiling traitors.
Like Déagol. Like them.
His shoulders tensed.
His fingers curled like claws.
> They will come.
They will take.
And they will smile when they do it.
His memories flared—Déagol's smirk, the villagers' mocking stares, the stones that flew through the air.
---
He turned to the walls, chest heaving.
The silence answered with breathless judgment.
And then, he shouted.
> "WHO WILL SERVE ME?"
The words cracked the stillness like thunder, ricocheting off every wall, racing through columns and shadows, awakening dust that hadn't moved in centuries.
> "WHO WILL PROTECT WHAT IS MINE?"
Only his own voice came back.
Mocking.
Distant.
Soft.
> "…mine… mine… mine…"
---
The lightstone dimmed.
Its once-proud glow now retreated, folding in on itself like a shamed servant.
Gollum stood motionless.
His vision—his dream—faltered.
> A king of stone and no voices.
A god of dust.
A ruler of silence.
He looked down at his hands—so strong, so bloody, so ready—and suddenly they felt small.
He was powerful.
He was crowned.
He was alone.
And even the mountain did not answer.
The silence wrapped around him like a shroud.
---
He turned slowly.
His mouth a bitter snarl.
The weight of it all—rage, grief, longing—bent his back.
And then—
He stepped out of the guardhouse.
Into the dark.
Not as a king.
But as a man searching for something to believe in again.
---
Gollum stepped out of the guardhouse.
And there—
She was.
Tauriel.
Like a flame made flesh.
She stood in the archway, backlit by the glow of the white lightstone that hovered behind Gollum's shoulder. The mist from the deeper hall curled at her feet like kneeling ghosts, and her red hair caught the light in long strands of fire and gold.
She was still.
Silent.
Watching him.
Eyes wide—not with fear.
But with awe.
> He's real, she thought.
He's real, and he's mine.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
She had imagined this moment too many times. Practiced greetings. Smiles. Even lines she'd whispered into the trees when no one listened.
But now—he stood before her, bare-chested, breathing heavily, pulsing with divine light and the weight of blood-wrought strength.
She couldn't speak.
She could barely breathe.
---
But Gollum didn't see awe.
He saw a trick.
The way she stood—calm, elegant, perfect.
The way her face didn't tremble.
The way her hands were visible, empty, too empty.
> Too soft.
> Too still.
> Just like them.
His vision began to blur at the edges—not from injury, but from emotion.
The burn of betrayal. The sting of memory.
He saw the Stoors again.
Smiling while they threw stones.
He saw Déagol's hand reaching for his neck.
He saw their faces twist into masks of false concern, pretending they cared until the moment they struck.
And now here she was.
Another soft face.
Another dagger hidden in beauty.
---
> They sent her.
The Stoors. Or the Wildmen. Or someone else. Doesn't matter.
She's the bait.
The pretty one. The gentle one. The liar.
Sent to get close. To lull me. To strike when I sleep.
His heart thundered in his ears.
The white core in his chest flared bright, bleeding heat down his arms, red veins pulsing with rage. His muscles twitched, trembling like a beast about to pounce.
She moved—
Just a step forward.
Just enough.
And something snapped.
---
> "NO!" he roared, voice like a war drum shattering the silence.
> "YOU THINK I DON'T SEE?!"
> "YOU THINK I DON'T REMEMBER?!"
---
The Strike
Before she could raise her hands.
Before she could say a word.
He was on her.
His arm whipped across the air, a blur of motion. The back of his hand collided with her cheek, not at full strength—but still enough to drop her.
Tauriel gasped, her cry sharp and small. Her head snapped sideways, her knees buckled, and she hit the stone hard—shoulder first, then hip, then skull against the edge of the doorframe.
The world spun.
Stars filled her vision.
And all she could hear was his breathing.
Heavy. Ragged. Animal.
She reached up, weakly—not to fight, but to touch her face, to stop the world from spinning.
But already, his hand had curled into her hair.
Already, he was dragging her into the darkness.
---
Gollum stepped out of the guardhouse.
And there—
She was.
Tauriel.
Like a flame made flesh.
She stood in the archway, backlit by the glow of the white lightstone that hovered behind Gollum's shoulder. The mist from the deeper hall curled at her feet like kneeling ghosts, and her red hair caught the light in long strands of fire and gold.
She was still.
Silent.
Watching him.
Eyes wide—not with fear.
But with awe.
He's real, she thought.
He's real, and he's mine.
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
She had imagined this moment too many times. Practiced greetings. Smiles. Even lines she'd whispered into the trees when no one listened.
But now—he stood before her, bare-chested, breathing heavily, pulsing with divine light and the weight of blood-wrought strength.
She couldn't speak.
She could barely breathe.
But Gollum didn't see awe.
He saw a trick.
The way she stood—calm, elegant, perfect.
The way her face didn't tremble.
The way her hands were visible, empty, too empty.
Too soft.
Too still.
Just like them.
His vision began to blur at the edges—not from injury, but from emotion.
The burn of betrayal. The sting of memory.
He saw the Stoors again.
Smiling while they threw stones.
He saw Déagol's hand reaching for his neck.
He saw their faces twist into masks of false concern, pretending they cared until the moment they struck.
And now here she was.
Another soft face.
Another dagger hidden in beauty.
They sent her.
The Stoors. Or the Wildmen. Or someone else. Doesn't matter.
She's the bait.
The pretty one. The gentle one. The liar.
Sent to get close. To lull me. To strike when I sleep.
His heart thundered in his ears.
The white core in his chest flared bright, bleeding heat down his arms, red veins pulsing with rage. His muscles twitched, trembling like a beast about to pounce.
She moved—
Just a step forward.
Just enough.
And something snapped.
"NO!" he roared, voice like a war drum shattering the silence.
"YOU THINK I DON'T SEE?!"
"YOU THINK I DON'T REMEMBER?!"
The Strike
Before she could raise her hands.
Before she could say a word.
He was on her.
His arm whipped across the air, a blur of motion. The back of his hand collided with her cheek, not at full strength—but still enough to drop her.
Tauriel gasped, her cry sharp and small. Her head snapped sideways, her knees buckled, and she hit the stone hard—shoulder first, then hip, then skull against the edge of the doorframe.
The world spun.
Stars filled her vision.
And all she could hear was his breathing.
Heavy. Ragged. Animal.
She reached up, weakly—not to fight, but to touch her face, to stop the world from spinning.
But already, his hand had curled into her hair.
Already, he was dragging her into the darkness.
---
Then—
She stirred.
A groan escaped her throat, soft and hoarse. Her body ached. Her head throbbed. Cold stone bit into her knees where she had collapsed, and the rusted iron collar tugged against her neck with every breath.
Her vision blurred, then sharpened.
And she saw him.
Kneeling in front of her.
Not snarling now.
Not screaming.
Just… looking.
His breath was heavy, but no longer furious. The veins on his arms still glowed faintly with white and red, but the light had begun to pulse slower, steadier.
And his eyes…
Not mad.
Not cruel.
Just—hurt.
Confused.
Like he was staring at a riddle he didn't know how to solve.
Like he didn't know what to do with someone who hadn't tried to hurt him.
---
Her heart pounded in her chest.
Each thud a drumbeat of panic and heat.
Her cheeks were flushed—not from fear, not anymore, but from the unbearable awkwardness of being close to him.
So close she could feel the heat rising off his bare chest.
So close she could smell him—not foul, but earthy, wild, like rain-soaked stone and hot metal.
Her lips trembled.
> Say something. Do something. Break this. Before he turns again. Before he walks away. Before he leaves you in chains.
And then—before she could think, before she could stop herself—
She spoke.
---
> "Is that… all you're going to search?"
---
The words left her mouth in a broken whisper.
They hung in the air like frost.
Gollum froze.
His body went still—unnaturally still, like a statue of muscle and light.
His head tilted.
Not in confusion.
In shock.
---
Tauriel's face went red instantly.
She wanted to disappear. To sink into the floor. To rewind time.
But the words were already out there.
Floating between them.
Like a match falling into oil.
Her voice came again, even softer, shaking:
> "You never know… I could be hiding something in my pants…"
She squeezed her eyes shut.
Then, with a cracked breath, added:
> "Or… my mouth…"
Her voice caught on the last word.
She bit her lip—hard, as if to punish herself for being so ridiculous.
---
It was a childish line. A foolish one.
But it was all she had.
Her only card.
Her only chance to shift the moment, to touch something human in the god-beast before her.
---
Her shoulders shook.
Not from pain now.
But from the awful, unbearable vulnerability of wanting to be seen.
> Please… don't laugh.
Please… don't hate me.
Please… just see me.
She lowered her eyes.
Her throat tightened.
She braced for mockery. For rage. For indifference.
But none came.
---***###
Gollum's Reaction
The silence stretched.
Then Gollum's head tilted.
His breath slowed.
He looked at her—really looked.
> Not angry. Not afraid.
Not even mocking.
Wanting.
And her scent…
He could smell it.
Desire.
Need.
> Déagol always bragged.
Always whispered about what women smelled like when they wanted.
> This… was the same.
He blinked.
His body still tense.
But softer.
And then—his voice came low.
> "Are you… sure?"
Tauriel's heart stopped.
She met his eyes.
And she nodded, shy and sincere.
> "Yes."
---
The silence stretched like a blade between them.
Gollum's head tilted, his breath slowing, his eyes narrowing—not in suspicion now, but in something closer to wonder.
He looked at her—not as a prisoner, not as a threat.
But as a woman. A being of want. Of warmth.
He could smell it.
That undeniable heat radiating off her skin.
The faint tremble of her thighs.
The flush on her cheeks.
The rising, rapid rhythm of her heart.
> This isn't fear.
> This is… need.
---
Déagol had talked about this.
Boasted.
Grinned.
Said that when a woman wanted you, you could taste it in the air.
And now—
Gollum tasted it.
And it was sweet.
---
His body remained tense.
Not out of rage now—but out of the unfamiliarity of the moment. The fragility. The rawness.
He had crushed skulls. Torn men apart.
But this?
This was something infinitely more terrifying.
He could kill her.
But he didn't want to.
He wanted… to be closer.
---
> "Are you… sure?"
The words left him like a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Tauriel's heart stopped.
Her eyes widened.
Her lips parted.
She looked up into his face—so wild, so scarred, so utterly wrong in every Elven definition of beauty—
And yet in that moment, he was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen.
The heat in her womb surged.
She nodded, slowly.
Eyes wet.
Voice shaking.
> "Yes."
---
And Then They Kissed
It was not planned.
It was not polite.
It just happened.
Gollum leaned in, unsure. His breath was hot. His lips cracked.
Tauriel met him halfway—eyes fluttering closed, lips parting.
Their mouths touched.
And the world stopped.
---
At first, it was awkward.
His lips were firm, roughened by years of wind and blood.
Hers were soft, trembling, uncertain.
But the contact sent shockwaves through both of them.
Her fingers gripped his arms.
His hand settled on her waist—gently at first, then firmer, as if anchoring himself to something real.
She moaned, faintly, involuntarily.
He growled—low in his throat, not a threat, but something primal. Something claiming.
---
Their bodies leaned together.
Her knees pressed into the stone.
His weight shifted, pulling her into his chest.
The lightstone above dimmed to a soft glow, wrapping them in honey-colored light like a blessing from some forgotten god.
The collar.
The chain.
The cold cell walls.
All of it melted away.
In that kiss, there were no curses, no kingdoms, no scars, no past.
Only this:
Two beings who had never known love.
Finding it.
In the dark.
Together.
---