Title: The Healing of Smeagol

Author: HazardousRaptor  hazardr@adelphia.net

Pairings: Frodo/Gollum/Sam

Rating: R

Archive: LOM, and anyone else need only ask, I won't refuse!



Summary: After the hobbits were released from Osgiliath, Gollum decided to
lead them to their doom. But what if he were injured, and they had no choice
but to rely on one another? What relationships would they form; and what
things would they discover about their troubled guide?

Disclaimer: The Lord Of The Rings is owned by Tolkien Enterprises, this
story is meant not to encroach on that copyright, I earn absolutely nothing
from it. I'm poor, everyone I know is poor, don't sue me, I have ten dollars
to my name right now, and no, you can't have it.

Warning: Tons of hurt/comfort, alternate universe, and people who don't like
blood and descriptive injuries should probably keep out.

Authors Note: Movieverse, takes place right after the end of TTT. Alternate
Universe!


*****


Three hobbits walked steadily through a rather dry and thick forest.
If one had looked upon them, though, they would have sworn it was only two,
with some strange, wily wretch of a creature. But it didn't matter what
others thought, only those three. For they controlled the fate of the world.

Gollum walked ahead, his body crawling low to the ground. Sam, then Frodo
followed closely behind. The forest was that of Ithilien, and each step
brought them closer and closer to Mordor. The climate was warm, and the
occasional chirps of birds were heard, but were still rare. No doubt that was
due to the proximity of the dark land, with the lidless eye ever watching.

Trees were packed closely together, vegetation thick and lush. It was a
relief to Sam and Frodo, who felt it was the most favorable land they had
traveled through since they left the fellowship. Their worlds were slightly
brighter, despite the ever-encroaching dread they all felt. The experience
with Faramir was one they would not want to relive, despite the fact that it
seemed to drive them all the more forward.

The atmosphere was packed with emotion. Tension bred in the thick, humid
air. Gollum's pace was even more hurried than usual, causing the other
hobbits to scramble after him at a fast walk. Still, the path was hard, tiring, and 
was almost deliberately chosen as such.

Frodo tried his best to keep pace with the former Ring-bearer and, as he
nearly tripped over a log, realized they had to slow down. "Sméagol!" he
called up ahead. "Please, slow down!"

Gollum stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Make haste! Make haste!
Wraiths close, they see master, we must go!"

But this did not sway Frodo. "Yes, they saw master. And yes, they are near. But
I cannot keep up, Sméagol. And if I fall and become injured..." But he never
finished the sentence; Sam broke in.

"And if you're the cause of 'im gettin' hurt..." Sam began in a deep and
threatening tone. Sméagol's eyes grew, and he began to shrink backwards. This
immediately prompted Frodo to react.

"Sam, it’s all right," he said as he grabbed his companion's shoulder. "He didn't 
mean anything by it. I'm sure he's just frightened." Samwise eased off, but his 
gaze was strangely not as harsh as it would have usually been. Something about 
him was different, changed, unusual. His gaze turned back to Gollum, whose 
focus was switching between the two.

The older hobbit turned back and started off again. He was careful to go
more slowly this time, but he continued to mutter to himself under his breath, 
none of it decipherable by the two other hobbits. They did notice that
Gollum seemed ever odder than usual, and Frodo couldn't help but feel that
Sam looked upon him with a new curiosity, like he suddenly understood what
the creature was going through.

In reality Sam simply didn't know how to feel. After Frodo nearly killed
him, he knew the Ring was having its effect on his best friend, knew it was
changing him. And now that he saw its effect on his master in the form of
attempted murder, he began to see the effect in full in Sméagol.

But his pity had not taken full in Gollum yet. He watched him with eagle
eyes... and strangely enough, he found himself looking at Frodo in almost
the same manner.

Up the line, Gollum stopped. He sniffed the humid air, turning his head
on his spindly neck. With a sigh, he sat down and began to paw at the dirt,
muttering again. Ahead was a tower like a rock formation, shafts of light
illuminating it through the dark and dreary forest. There appeared to be no
real way around it; rocks and boulders were everywhere.

Panting heavily, the other hobbits finally caught up. Apparently, Sméagol had 
never meant to slow down at all. He didn't remember this formation; in fact, he 
didn't think he had come across this turn before, either. He hated to admit it, but 
he was lost.

"We is lossst, lossst, precious," his Gollum side admitted. A slight wind
came along and sent the last remnants of his hair waving in the wind,
sweeping over his pale face. "Don't tell the nasty hobbitses. They hates
us! Hates us both!"

Frodo stopped and watched the crouched figure. Gollum turned to look at them
both. "Up there, up there! Good Sméagol will go first!" he cried out in his
most innocent tone as his slinker side won out for a few choice minutes.

And with that, he began his ascent up the small tower of rock, hands expertly 
clutching the crags of stone, crawling up the face with speed and vigor unlike any 
before. He was halfway up before the other two said anything.

"Just what do you think you're doing?!" Sam yelled from below. Sméagol
stopped for a moment on a ledge and looked down to his confused companions.

"Sam hobbit must follow, hurry hobbitses, hurry!"

"No I will not! There is no..." But he stopped as he noticed Frodo was
beginning to climb up after Gollum. "Frodo! It's too dangerous!" He ran
over to him.

"Sam, I'm tired of arguing. He hasn't gotten us hurt yet." And with a rather
tired and irritated look, he turned and gained a foothold. Gollum's expression
was that of relief; he sat and waited for his kind master to make his way
up. Sam let out an angry and irritated breath, then gruffly followed suit.

Sam was terrible at rock climbing, Frodo noticed. But then, he was not much
better himself. They made their way up several feet, and it wasn't until
then that their guide started his way up again. Frodo slipped a bit and
bruised his hand a little. He cried out, then put the victimized finger in
his mouth to temporarily relieve the pain.

Gollum, however, despite his wonderful hearing, was too far up to listen.
Instead, he found his way to the very top. It was flat and only had enough
room upon which to balance one lowly hobbit. He did so, perfectly resting on all 
fours, clinging on for dear life. He knew that one push or misstep would send 
him rolling down the rocks. The other side was craggy, with sharp rocks that 
reminded him faintly of the Emyn Muil. An even more distant memory filtered 
through from his youth. There was a small cliff, with big rocks near his home. 
Sometimes he would crawl on them, dig them up. He would have so much
fun with something so simple...

"Fool," his Gollum side mused. "Doesn't matter now. Passst. Nasssty past. Forget 
it." And so he did, and with a heavy sigh, his gaze turned upward just as some 
heavy wind blew his few strands of hair before his face again. The dark brown of 
the hair whipped against his face, making him flinch. He tried to
remember when he used to have curly long hair. Everyone had said that it was 
like his mother's. But the memory was lost to the wind, just as his life had been.

A caterpillar was crawling its way slowly up a rock below him; he bent
forward a bit to watch as the green larva made its way steadily towards
him. He had always had an interest in anything of the natural world, not to
mention whatever appeared unusual or out of the ordinary. Ever since his
youth, though it had dulled since then. With a heavy sigh, he looked up again.

"Hey!" Sam called from below, furious that he had ignored Frodo's small
injury. "What's wrong with you!?"

Sméagol spun around, careful to not slip, and almost did. Sam had helped
Frodo to a smaller ledge right below the one where their guide sat. Of
course, he wasn't hurt much. But the fatter companion didn't take chances.

"Sam, stop it, please!" Frodo pleaded. "I am growing sick of all this! He has
done nothing!"

But something snapped within Gamgee's mind. Something deep, something 
primal. "You know what I'm sick of, Mr. Frodo? You always stickin' up for 'im!" 
And pointed a finger at the emaciated form above him.

The Ring-bearer's eyes widened, and his heart began to race. He'd never seen
his gardener like this before. Had he gone mad?

"I just don't want any..." he began.

"Don't want any what!? Look at 'im! He's disgusting! He's..." and as he spoke
he walked higher and began to impose himself on the creature, "...sickening!
He's crazy! Why can't you see that!?"

"Sam, what is wrong with you!?" Frodo screamed at his companion, standing up.

All the while, Sméagol's mind whirred. Hate and anger began to brew back up, 
but mostly, he was both sick and frightened. The scary Sam-hobbit was
getting closer, with looks of incredible, horrible intent on his face.

Had to get away, had to.

Sam suddenly looked, and saw that Gollum was trying to escape. No, not this 
time. He reached out and grabbed one of Gollum's long, muscular yet lithe arms,
attempting to pull him forward.

But the result was more of a push, and it came at exactly the wrong time.
Sméagol was trying to move downwards and catch a good grip with his foot,
but never did.

Instead, the two other hobbits watched helplessly as their companion went
wheeling over the edge. Sam's grip was loose, and Gollum's hand slipped
easily through it. Looks of horror and surprise flashed across both their
features as the frail form of Sméagol rolled down the side of the small
tower. And it wasn't straight down, either. His body bounced from rock to
rock as it fell, gravity claiming a new victim.

Frodo watched, his heart leaping to his throat, his mind fuzzy and sickened.
Gollum rolled along sharp stones and tore his thin skin. One on the head,
torso, and all over the legs and arms. Then, he fell. Several feet, at least
five, which seemed a lot more to a hobbit, and onto hard rock. One could
distinctly hear the sound of flesh and bone hitting the slick surface of wet
stone. Gollum disappeared from view.

And all was silent, save the ever-present sound of fell winds.

"Sam... what have you done?" Frodo asked his friend in a whisper. But he 
regretted saying the words the minute they left his mouth. Because he knew it 
was his own fault. He had watched, again, as another friend plummeted to his 
doom. And just as before, he had done nothing.

"I... I..." The hobbit next to him stammered, lips trembling, eyes wider then
saucers. His hands shook as he attempted to steady himself on the rock, stomach 
turning, and nausea become to overcome his small body.

To Frodo, Sméagol was gone. He lay dead on the rocks below. Looking down, he
watched as blood collected on the sharp ledges. There was a lot of it... too much, 
in fact. Too much for someone who could possibly be alive.

Bile began to rise in his throat, and did his best to keep it down. Putting
his hand to his mouth, he made sure nothing would escape. Suddenly, a sound
came on the wind. It was low and almost nonexistent, but it was there.

Gollum was alive, and crying softly at the bottom of the cliff.

"Sméagol!" Frodo cried as a wave of incredible relief washed over him. And
before Sam could stop him, he began to climb swiftly down. "Sméagol are you 
all right, Sméagol?!" He reached the cliff and peered down. Sam swiftly followed 
suit, falling to his hands and knees to look.

"By Eru... I..." he tried to say, but stuttered in amazement.

Gollum lay there on the stone, an even more broken hobbit then he had been 
before. Sprawled out completely on his back, his right hand rested on the hollow 
form of his chest. The left leg was bent at the knee. His loincloth had been torn 
from his body; it now lay on one of the pointed rocks above. Those striking blue 
eyes of his were closed.

The rest was horror. His right leg was a compound fracture, both the lower
leg bones broken cleanly and poking through the skin. Muscle was visible
around the white of the bone. Blood was smeared all around his calf, smudged
by his own movements. The other leg remained badly bruised. His left arm was
also clearly broken, though it remained under the skin. It was, however,
bent at an incredibly odd angle. The wrist was sprained.

The other arm was gored and butchered by the rocks, dark wounds and
bruises covering every inch. His skin no longer looked pale, but black with
bruised skin and red with smeared blood. And his chest was severely
scratched; no doubt his back was no better.

His head was, thankfully, not smashed. But it was torn up badly; blood
oozed from the opening of a wound that had appeared above his right eye,
flowing across his closed eyes. And if that wasn't enough, his genitals
looked to be mangled as well, being lined with cuts and scratches.

Blood, blood was everywhere. He lay in a small puddle of it, and it was
growing by the minute. It dripped steadily off the rock he was on, and
formed small pools of their own.

But one thing spoke the most, and that was the steady and fast rhythm of his
breathing. A small and short squeak would emit from him as a sign of his
withheld pain. He was clearly unconscious.

Frodo breathed both in a sigh of relief and a cry of despair. He swallowed
hard, then climbed down to join his injured friend. Approaching slowly, he
tried his best not to fall to his knees in anguish at the awful scene before
him. He bent down beside Gollum and gently grabbed his uninjured hand, but
it was still covered with already-drying blood. Flies had started to gather
as the sun made the whole scene reek.

"Sméagol? Sméagol, can you hear me?" he asked in his calmest voice. No answer
came; Gollum's face was that of a complete blackout. Small streaks of blood 
were evident on his busted lip, his jaw lined with bruises. He had a black left
eye. Just then, Sam made his way down to join them. And now as he looked upon 
the injured figure before him, all the hate that brewed within him seemed to 
disappear. He raised his hand to his mouth in horror.

"Mr. Frodo... I... I didn't mean to." Sam almost fell into sobs right there.
His mind swarmed with thoughts from the past. He had wanted to kill the
wretch... wanted it more than anything at times. Why, then, when it actually
happened, was he so stricken?

Frodo nodded to his friend, a look of bewilderment and sadness etched across
his face. He then returned his gaze to their guide. "He's not dead, Sam. But
he's hurt bad. He's lost a lot of blood." His vision trailed over the poor
creature's body. He once again turned to his petrified companion.

"We must help him," Frodo said, and he slung off his backpack. Sam was about 
to
criticize his decision. Then he realized he had no real right to; he had caused
this, he was responsible for Gollum. Regardless of what Sam 'thought', Gollum 
had done nothing since that first night in the Emyn Muil.

In fact, he hadn't done anything but help. And now he needed theirs, but
Sam wasn't so sure he wanted to give it to him. To Frodo, however, there was
no other option. In Lórien, he had received several new items that would help
him in his quest, some of which were for healing. He pulled out several
canvas-colored cloths that were made by elven hands. They felt silky to the
touch, and smelled of crushed herbs.

The hobbits knew little about healing, but it was obvious what to do: stop
the bleeding. Frodo took one of the cloths and tied it around Sméagol's
forehead, covering the nasty gash, cinching it tight. Another cloth was
stretched wide, then placed over his waist and chest. The open wounds on the
arms and legs received similar treatment.

Sam assisted in the process, all the while his mind turning over and over. What
seemed so striking to him was the blood. It was red, quickly turning brown
as it dried. He, oddly, hadn't been expecting that. Samwise thought only black,
choking blood pumped through those horrid veins, or maybe none at all. But
no, it was red. Like a man, elf, dwarf.

Or a hobbit, just like him.

His injuries were still obvious, the fractured bones of his legs and arms
needed fixing, but not here, not now. No doubt more injuries lay below the
surface of his pale skin. Frodo tied on another piece of cloth to hide his
nudity, as well as prevent it from any more injury.

"Sam," he said softly. "We need to get him out of here."

"But where?" Sam answered, panting.

Frodo stood up, his heart thumping nervously in his chest. And then he saw it, 
across a small field of rocks. It was a cave in a cliffside. Frodo pointed to it. 
"There," he answered.

Sam followed his gaze and sighed at the thought, but turned back to his two
companions with doubt in his mind. "Why can't we just... leave him here?" He
forced out the words. Frodo snapped up and looked at him with a combination
of shock and sadness.

"Sam," he said sadly, "no. We will not. We cannot." Then he stood for a
moment, and looked over the landscape. "I won't have it. I told you before,
Sam, I want to help him. And he needs it now more then ever." Sam nodded,
reluctantly.

"Then let's go." Frodo turned to his injured companion, his breath shallow.

He then carefully and slowly wrapped his hands around their guide's chest,
wincing at the feel of the wet and slimy blood on his hands. He lifted him up
slightly, in constant fear that Gollum would wake suddenly from the pain and
cause even more damage to himself. Sam gathered up his strength and courage,
took a deep breath, and grabbed the legs.

The sight of the broken leg turned his stomach; luckily, the bleeding had
stopped. Gollum's arms dangled and dragged slightly on the ground. He would
whimper occasionally, but still was obviously out cold. The blood from his
head caused the brown hair of his scalp to mat. He was filthy with his own
life fluids up and down, and the flies continued to pursue them in the
midday heat.

He was a light load, too light. His skinny frame was transported easily
across the terrain, but not swiftly. They were both careful to not cause any
pain, and worried each time he whined in his comatose state.

They reached the cave, and it was a surprisingly welcome sight. It had a
wide but low entrance, but opened up more within. The two hobbits maneuvered
his lithe body into the crevice, and were surprised by the roomy interior. A
large and expansive chamber lay inside. To the left, there was a flat slab
engraved into the wall. And the center there was a fire ring. It was obvious
that this had been used before, but its occupants were nowhere to be seen.

"This will do nicely," Frodo remarked gruffly, and with the last of his
failing strength, he led Sam over to the stone bed. They set Sméagol upon it,
his head facing the cave entrance, using all the dexterity they could muster
to insure he wasn't suffering any pain from the position.

With a huff of exhaustion, both sat down near the bottom of the 'bed', heads
against the stone, breathing, thinking. They stared ahead, towards what was
to be their new 'home' for no doubt several days. Sam looked down at his
hands; Sméagol's blood was smeared all over his calloused palms, arms, and
soaking into his shirt and elven cloak.

Now it was getting sticky, and flies were beginning to gather. Frodo sighed and 
wiped the sweat from his brow with a clean sleeve. He looked about the room, 
and to the back of the chamber; something caught his eye.

"There's some water in here," he remarked, pointing to the back. And there
was — Sam got up to look — there was a small pool of cold mountain water. A
river trickled silently from the hills above and entered a small tunnel. And
in the water, to both hobbit's surprise, were fish. They were brown trout, and 
would suffice nicely as a meal.

Frodo and Sam wasted no time washing their hands and arms off, then
splashing some water on their clothes to mask the horrid scent. Then they
again sat in silence.

"What are we going to do, Sam?" Frodo asked, tired, broken. Sam sighed, and
put his head in his hands.

"I don't know, Mr. Frodo. We can't go 'on without 'im. And like you said, we 
can't leave 'im behind, even if we didn't need 'im. We should probably get to 
setting his bones."

Frodo stared across the cave to his hurt companion, a sudden sadness welling
up within. Tears began to surface, but he wiped them away quickly.

"Not now," Frodo responded. "Let's just rest, please. I'm about ready to
collapse." And with that, he laid against the stone and fell into a small
trance. Sam nodded off himself, his dreams full of unknown horrors.



*****


Frodo was entranced in his scent. It was like a hobbit whom had just come
back from some hard labor. He didn't know why, but it drove him mad. Never
was he so attracted to another being like he was now. Likening it to the
feeling he had for the females back at the Shire. But he had never managed to
get close to them; him, however, he was already inside.

He looked down at the person below him, and was overjoyed at the happiness
he had brought the poor being. Cooing like a playful cat, the thin body
began to snuggle even closer, running those flattened hands of his through
the curly hair that adorned his head.

Crying. He heard crying. Frodo awoke. The short term memory of his brain
found it no longer needed his dream. And so it was dumped, disposed of, and
was forgotten. That, and the present situation was arguably even more
urgent. Gollum had awoken.

He still lay in his makeshift bed. His entire body trembled violently, and
he was crying intensely, not so much a scream as it was a low whine. Frodo
leaped up to his feet, and gently shook Sam awake.

Sméagol continued to cry out, his voice rising then lowering. His eyes were
filled to the brim with tears, and his arms were raised partially in the air
as they twitched. To Gollum, it felt just like Mordor, the second most
horrible experience in his long life. That machine that stretched him, those
whips, cruel utensils that cut and scarred him. Sometimes when he fell into
a trance, which replaced 'sleep' ever since he got the 'precious', he would
have nightmares about it. It broke his spirit even more so, and wreaked
havoc on his already-troubled mind.

Now he felt riddled with pain once more, jolts of it shooting throughout
every nerve of his thin frame. Mostly from the compound fracture, not to
mention the broken bones in his arm, and a few smashed ribs. Confusion ran
rampant in his mind, desperately trying to remember what had happened before 
he
blacked out. All he could remember was that Sam hobbit... he did this! Nasty
hobbit hates us! We knew it!

He didn't know the full extent of his injuries, but he felt the pain. It was
making him sick, his vision blurry and stomach turning. Feeling as though he
was about to throw up that bit of fish he had at the Forbidden Pool, he
lurched, but was lucky enough to keep it down.

"Make it stop, precious," he thought. "Just please... we'll do anything..."

It was then that his master showed up beside him. And almost like magic, his
mind was eased and the pain didn't seem as bad as before. He lolled his head
over to see him, to gaze into those caring eyes.

"Mas... master-rr?" He tried to form words through his sobs and blood filled
mouth.

"Sméagol...?" Frodo asked back, and gently reached for the uninjured hand
of his friend. "How... how do you feel?" And then gently he stroked his 
companion's hand in sympathy and pity.

Frodo regretted saying something so obvious, but he had no real idea how to
greet Sméagol as he came out of his comatose state. Gollum blinked and took
a moment to register. "It hurtssss... it hurtsss us."  And in the process, he
spat out blood and a newly destroyed tooth. The cry ended in a sob, and he
turned his head away, body shaking and perspiration clinging to his
features, chest heaving with torment.

Sam had been watching from afar; he sat and tried desperately not to pull
Frodo from the mess, and yet he could by no means turn away. The pitiful
being lay on that rock bed, and cried and wailed so sadly, and not a trace
of anger remained. He walked up to Gollum and joined his master's side.

Frodo swallowed uneasily, and assessed the state of his fallen companion. He
lay with his head turned to the right, eyes closed, crying loudly. His left
arm wrapped around his head, face burrowed in the inside of his elbow.

"Make it stop master... please! Fix it." And he fell into sobs again. Sméagol
desperately hoped master would make it all better... he had to, just had
to... he was beginning to see black spots flashing before his eyes. Despite
the pain, he didn't want to drift back out into unconsciousness again. It
was like a fuzzy void that hovered over his mind.

"Everything is going to be okay, Sméagol," Frodo began, a lump in his throat.
"You fell off that tower of rocks. But we picked you back up. We carried you
here, and we are going to help you, all right then?" he asked as calmly and 
soothingly as he could muster.

Sméagol gently whined and nodded in response, then turned his head. His eyes
widened at the sight of Sam, however, and a look of fear flashed across his
face.

"Nasty hobbit! Nassssty Sam!" He cried out, using his name for the first
time. "He pushed us! Tried to kill us!" And then he tried to back up, but
winced and cried as he nudged his many injuries, and slumped back down.
Shivering massively once more, his heartbeat increased tenfold.

Sam backed up, astonished at Gollum's sudden reaction. He now watched from
afar again as Frodo tried to calm him down. Taking his hand again, he began
again in a soothing voice. "Sam didn't mean to! I was there, I saw it!
He... tried to help you, to pull you in, now that I think of it." He glanced
back to his companion. Surprise registered on Sam's face, and so he turned
back.

"I know it hurts, Sméagol, and Sam is sorry... we are sorry. But we are going
to help you get better, all right? But you have to help us. Can you help us,
Sméagol?" Frodo was always sure to repeat his real name. It made him pay
attention, understand, and trust. A look of desperation and pleading came
into his eyes as he looked at his master. He sniffled, and the shaking began
to die down.

"We can help, master. But you must help poor Sméagol, we is very sick." He
said the last part in a failing, high pitched squeak. And began to cry
again, falling into a series of dry coughs. His breathing increased and he
began to hyperventilate, finding difficulty keeping up with his own diseased
lungs.

It was clear to them both that Sméagol's health was beginning to fade, they
had to act fast. Frodo placed his hand on his injured friend's forehead, he
was feverishly hot. And now he was sweating. Breathing raspy and quick, he
looked at his master with urgency.

"What should we do, Sam?" He asked his companion with indecisiveness. Sam
gave him a look of confusion, sighed, then shrugged his shoulders. "Set
those bones, I suppose. That's what's causing all that pain, I bet. A cold
rag on his head might help that fever, too."

Frodo knew enough to estimate that fixing those bones would cause even
more agony, but it had to be done. It didn't take a genius, only common
sense, to figure that he would need several splints. "Could you get some
word, for splints? But before that, can you wet a rag?" He asked his
gardener.

Sam looked back up, and nodded. With some hesitation, he tore a piece of
cloth from his sleeve, not wanting to use his bathing materials. Wetting it
in the water, he carred it back over to his master.

"Thank you, Sam. Now how about that wood?" He asked again, eager for some
odd reason.

"You'll be all right here, by yourself?" he asked, and there was no question of
the level of concern he had. Here, alone, with Gollum. Not to mention that 
whatever had created this little outpost might come back. He watched as Frodo
nodded and made a faint smile. "I'll be fine." Then proceeded to take Gollum's 
hand again, concern in his eyes.

As his friend left, he made sure he was gone, gently calling out his name.
There was no answer. And gently then began to stoke Sméagol's pale and
bruised hand with more then just comfort. Lightly, he kissed his hand, and
leaned over.

"You do know I care about you, Sméagol?" He told him, slowly and full of
kindness. "I want to help you. I want to bring you back." Gollum stopped
sobbing for a moment, and sniffled. Eyes brimming with tears, he looked into
the eyes of the Ring-bearer above him.

A moment of stillness spread over both of them, Gollum's gaze fierce and almost
unblinking as he looked at Frodo. As he started, the rag was lovingly wiping
away the sweat and some of the blood that covered his forehead.

"Then why did master betray us." And he said it with such venom and hate,
that Frodo's face contorted into worry and fear. He sat the rag on his
forehead, hoping it would relieve the heat further. Then with sadness close
to tears, he leaned back.

"I did no such thing," he stated plainly. "They held you in their sights. While you 
were fishing, they were ready to shoot. If I didn't come down... Sméagol, they 
would have killed you."

With that, he leaned in even closer. "If I wanted you dead, you would be.
But I care... oh yes, I do care. And I'm not sure I know why, but the important
thing is that... that I'm here to help you."

And then he took both hands, careful of the pain Gollum might feel, clasping
them together and holding them tight. "Please, Sméagol," and he began to cry
again, "don't die. Please don't die."

Sméagol looked completely awestruck. "Master... cries for us? Doesn't want
us to die...?" This took him by complete surprise, and a feeling of cold
racked his sweaty body. "But... why?"

Frodo sobbed again, unable to control himself. "Because I think you deserve
saving, Sméagol. Just as much as me, or Bilbo."

He then used one hand to reach under his clothing and pull out the One
Ring. Gollum tensed at its sight. "Don't let this rule you anymore... just as
it's doing to me."

Frodo leaned as close as possible, and let the Ring dangle onto the creature's 
chest as he spoke. "For me... please." He whispered into his right ear. And
then kissed him gently on the forehead, below the sweat soaked rag.

Sméagol's mind warped, and he resumed his sobbing. Not in pain, but in
sudden understanding. 'Nasssty Hobbit.' Cried Gollum to Sméagol. 'Lies,
rotten lies! What does he know of pain! He knows nothing! Kill him! Kill him
and take the precioussss. It will make us better! It has before, stopped the
pain, numbed it, and make us better! Allll better, Smeaaaagol. No more
crying, no more fat hobbit to hurts us.'

But Sméagol said nothing, did nothing.

'Why don't you killlll him! Hissss! Fool of a hobbit, just like the others!
Can't even kill right anymore!'

'Go away.'

Gollum laughed high and wickedly. 'Remember last time we leave? Master
betray us! Little Stoor hobbit should be glad I stayed around.'

'You don't care about me. He does. That's all the evidence I need! Leave me!'

Gollum paused. That was the first time he said 'I or me' to him in ages.

'I...' he began again.

'LEAVE ME! Déagol is dead! Déagol is dead, and it's all your fault!
Everything is your fault! I hate you! I HATE you! I HATE YOU!'

'Shut up! Filthy hobbit!'

And then Sméagol looked to his 'precious' on his chest for some comfort. It
always gave him reassurance, a figurative hand on his shoulder. But with a
look of absolute horror, he had a startling revelation. The voice of Gollum was
the Ring. It was emanating, speaking from it as well. Frodo heard nothing.

And suddenly, centuries of torment had a form that wasn't his own. Every
ounce of pain, hate, and blinding rage hidden under his thin frame bubbled to
its surface as he snapped back to a horrid and fuzzy reality. He snapped,
but this time, for the better.

'I am proud to be a hobbit. Rotten shadow. LEAVE NOW, never, EVER, come
back!"

The last part was first hissed, then screamed aloud, and it took every ounce
of his frail mental and physical strength as he grabbed the Ring from Frodo's 
chain and threw it across the room. It clattered to the floor, and the
black speech of Mordor could be heard calling from its small form.

Gollum was defeated.

Frodo was the embodiment of surprise, and looked at Sméagol with an
unimaginable level of horror and amazement. He rushed across the room and
grabbed it, stroked it gently, whispered to it, and fastened it onto the
chain again.

"Sorry, Master..." Sméagol trailed off. "But... you can help us... me... now," he 
said with a very, very slight smile, and he began to cry, his body shaking and 
writhing from the expulsion of the possessive will of the One Ring.

Frodo rushed over and knelt again beside him. He didn't know what had just
happened, but he knew it was progress. Knew... knew that for once, Sméagol had
the chance, and didn't take it. In fact, he had rejected it.

But in Sméagol's mind there still loomed a shadow. The Ring still existed,
and until it was destroyed, just like Sauron, Gollum would never fully
disappear. He pushed down the memories that came flooding back into his
ravaged brain. He wasn't sure he wanted to remember... yet, anyway. Perhaps if
he were able, he would have danced. But instead, he reached out, and Frodo
once again took his hand.

At that moment, Sam returned. In his arms he carried a whole pile of dead
wood. Frodo looked in his direction, and watched as he dumped the wood in
the fire Ring.

"Thought we could make a fire, too," Sam added, and wiped the sweat from his
brow. Frodo nodded and turned back to him. "Grab the flattest, sturdiest
pieces, about two." And as he said that, he stood and began to slowly rouse
Sméagol.

Frodo knew little about healing, but he did know that you should always wash
wounds out with soap and water; wounds always healed faster and healthier that
way. He bit his lip in thought. He had water, and he kept a bar of soap in
his pack, though he'd never had the opportunity to use it yet.

And yet he felt that Sméagol could wait no longer; the pain appeared to be
excruciating. The sooner the bone was set to heal, the sooner the worst part 
would be over, and they could be on the road to recovery. Frodo made his 
decision and waved Sam over.

"Let's move him over to the pool. We need to wash his leg and arm." Sam
walked over and looked upon the sad state of the creature. He lay stretched
out, on his back, and panted heavily. Looking up, Sméagol trembled at sight
of the fatter hobbit. He lay his uninjured right arm in front of his eyes in
fear.

"Sam mustn't hurt us... me...!" he corrected quickly. Sam stopped for a moment,
and looked at Frodo in shock. "Did you hear what he just said?" he asked
him. And then he looked down at Sméagol once more. "He said 'me'," he said
drifted off. Inside his mind dwelled new questions; this was the first time
he had ever actually referred to himself, and not 'we'. It confused and
bewildered Sam. Was he growing even more delirious, or even more sane?

"I did, Sam." Frodo responded, and then silently mouthed, "not now." And
Samwise remained silent, now unsure of what to make of their guide. Frodo
leaned over and wrapped his arms around Sméagol's chest. He stiffened in
response, and at first wiggled a little in fear. "Gollum, stop it," Sam
began as he realized what was about to happen if he did wiggle loose.

Sméagol complied immediately, looking at the person that now grabbed hold of 
his legs, shaking at the feel of his dry, calloused palms. Sméagol then cried
out when he was touched in the wrong way, his voice sad and haunting. Sam 
swiftly corrected himself, a look of irritation on his face. He moved his
hands upward and took him from around the waist.

He could feel the touch of the hobbits, and became rather shy of both
of them. So much fuss over his poor little self? And now that Gollum was
gone, he truly had to rely on the two strangers to care for him. The soft
cloth of their cloaks rubbing against his skin felt good. He twisted
slightly in their grasp to feel the texture of the elven workmanship. All the
while, his was mind fuzzy and loose from the sudden departure of his alter ego.

The idea that the Sam-hobbit was touching him... it made his skin twitch. It
was from a mixture of disgust and fear. He had been so hated by the fatter one, 
why would he touch poor little Sméagol? Did he want to hurt him? Why did he 
suddenly care?

'Maybe he's starting to care,' he thought to himself. 'He is too rough... his hands 
are hard on my skin.'

He was laid over by the pool, on his back. Sméagol winced at the feel of
cool, hard rock poking into his hide. Closing his eyes again, he tried not
to think. He didn't know what was going to happen next. He drifted slowly in
and out of delirium, his newly acquired fever not helping things. The body
of the slave to the Ring was weak from starvation and malnutrition. It used
to be that the Ring would cure these, but also cause them. Antibodies worked
hard to fight infection, the dead bacteria forming pus that was beginning
to make its way to the outside of his wounds.

Sméagol's body was fighting, heart hammering as it pumped blood around the
weakened being's form. His temperature was emperature rising, but still under a 
safe level. His brain was a literal battlefield of repairing neurons. Gollum's 
presence was like a plague on his mind, slowly destroying it. Now that he had 
left, it was beginning to repair. Not to mention the gash given to him by a 
particularly nasty rock that scraped his forehead on the fall down.

And the worst pain, perhaps, came from his groin. He wasn't sure what was
wrong with it, only that it hurt the most as he moved his legs in any way.
It was like someone had kicked him with a boot lined with spikes... several
times. Another memory from Mordor flooded back, but he repressed it.

Frodo looked upon him, and tried to look for any lack of comfort. But all he
could detect was the average look of withheld agony in Sméagol features. He 
began to make small 'ur' noises, but Frodo sat down beside his head, and, 
heedless of Sam's presence, moved Sméagol's head onto his lap. "Shhhhh..."
He gently began to stroke Sméagol's pointy hobbit ears. "It's all right... it's going 
to be all right."

Sméagol blinked slowly, and then sighed deeply. Closing his eyes, he fell
into the comfort of the younger hobbit. The feel of his hands were gentler
then that of his gardener friend. A tingle traveled through his body, and a
warmth filled him that had nothing to do with fever.

All the while, Sam watched... what was he doing? Touching him like that? "Mr.
Frodo," he whispered as low as possible. "What are you doing...?"

Frodo looked up like he had been snapped from a trance. He hadn't even
realized he was doing it. "C... comforting him," he squeaked out. But he didn't
stop; he just went slower, and less inconspicuously. Had there been no injuries, 
Sméagol might have fallen asleep right there in his master's lap.

But the evening would not be so peaceful. "There's some soap in my pack,
Sam, and a washcloth," he informed his friend. Sam sighed and gave him a
disturbed look. He got up and collected the items as he rummaged through
the worn backpack.

He carried over to Frodo a transparent piece of soap, and a blue rag. Sam
was rather disgusted that he was about to use his own bathing materials
for... him. It made his mind twitch.

"Lather up the rag a bit and start cleaning the area we're going to splint." And all 
the while, he looked down into the face of the now content Sméagol, who shifted 
a little in his small trance, unaware and uncaring as long
as he remained in Frodo's warm lap.

Sam bit his lip, feeling the need to express his displeasure to his master.
But he held it back; he remembered what had happened the last time he 
exploded,
and the result was what would dominate his life for the future weeks... at
best.

Sméagol lay comfortable, despite the pain that caused his legs to shake and his 
body to writhe. Suddenly, he felt the touch of something cold on his broken
leg. He jolted, leg twitching in response to the stimulation. Then he felt
Sam's hands hold his leg in place, and felt pressure being applied to the
open wound of his compound fracture.

His eyes opened, and he watched as Sam gently, though unwillingly, began to
scrub the area. He couldn't help but sit up a bit in alarm. Frodo held on to
Sméagol with his free hand, while the other continued to comfort. "It's
going to hurt a bit... but it will help it heal, Sméagol, lie down," Frodo
reassured, and gently placed him upon his lap again.

With a hearty swallow of worry and sickness, Sméagol closed his eyes again. His
hands gently moved up and grabbed at Frodo, and found his cloak. He breathed
into it, and inhaled, smelling his master's unique and once-familiar aroma.
It calmed him, the pheromones heavy in the air.

Sam watched as Sméagol contained himself, snuggling even closer to the
master he held so dear, and began to feel a touch of jealousy. He turned his
gaze down and wet the rag some more. He began by washing around the wound,
and was stunned at the amount of dirt that came off. He had to dip the
washcloth again to remove it.

He applied more soap and gently rubbed the wound. Sméagol's leg began
to twitch in stinging pain. He then shook, and snuggled even closer to
Frodo. Sam could hear a small whine, and then it would dissipate into more
spasms. He had difficulty holding on to the leg, but in the end, Sméagol 
surrendered and let his leg be cleaned by his rival. Sam moved the rag over the 
bone and knew it must have been horrible. He felt a pang of sympathy, and it
lasted the rest of the night.

Relieved, Frodo watched as Sam finished with the leg injury. He then
proceeded to wash out the cloth, turning the water a temporary red. Not
having a towel, and not wanting to walk over and grab one, Sam grudgingly
used his cloak to dry the wound, but was sure to be careful not to cause
more harm than good, dabbing it gently.

Sméagol let out a heavy sigh, then turned his head to see what Sam was going
to do next. "Frodo," Sam began, "I'm going to set it now."

Frodo nodded, a lump in his throat. They had both been gentle up to now. He
feared the sudden onslaught of pain that they would cause would result in
Sméagol reverting back to who he had been... before. Frodo couldn't explain it, 
but he knew he was different now. He wanted him to stay like this.

"Sméagol?" He asked quietly. His sparsely lined head turned upwards to stare, 
lined with sweat from the uneasy stress. "Sam is going to fix your leg, now, it's 
going to hurt, but it's the only way for it to get better, all right?" he
explained as best he could. With a shaky nod and a swallow, Sméagol agreed.

Nodding to Sam, Frodo took full hold, and placed his arms around Sméagol's 
chest like a ring. With a slight hesitation, he pulled his leg so that the bone could 
slide down into the skin. Immediately, Sméagol squeaked in a high pitch and 
began to backpedal in his master's arms. Frodo now held him closer, his back 
now to his chest. "Let it all out, let it all out," he whispered into his companion's 
ear.

"It hurts so much," Sméagol said in a pain-stricken and defeated voice, and then 
proceeded to sob.

"I'm here, I'm here." Frodo repeated in his ear, and hugged him close. Sam then 
pushed the bone down and through the skin, using all the strength he could 
muster. All the while the leg would thrash about, then stop and occasionally 
allow him to work. While it irritated him, he couldn't help but admit he might 
have done the same.

Finally, it was aligned with the bone, using his hands along the leg and
feeling under his skin. He grabbed the ready piece of wood and placed it along
Sméagol's shattered calf, then swiftly wrapped then tied the cloth around it. He 
stretched it to go between Sméagol's large first and second toes.

But it wasn't over yet. Sméagol's arm was still untended to, and so moved in the 
said direction. Sméagol was breathing loud and hard, doing all he could not
to pass out. He had grown even paler, sweat pouring from every concievable
pore. He knew what was coming next, as the same pain radiated from his arm
as did his leg, and held it out and looked in the other direction. Frodo
shot Sam a concerned look, and nodded as he then proceeded.

Sméagol yipped, then inhaled and exhaled loudly through clenched teeth. And
after nearly an hour of tedious anguish and repositioning, his arm was set,
splinted, and wrapped in the same fashion, the cloth stretched between his
thumb and index finger.

Sam sat back, exhausted from the constant wrestling with their patient. His
hands were covered in both sweat and blood. He swiftly washed them off in
the small fish pool next to him, and watched as the fish surfaced to
investigate the taste of the red life fluids. With a sigh, he looked to Frodo,
who gave him a smile.

"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said. And Sam felt better about the whole ordeal, not
feeling near as guilty about Sméagol's accident now that he had done
something to help. And Frodo was happy, and that made it all worth it. Then
he looked down at the gasping, yet relieved hobbit that he had just helped.
And he looked back.

In those eyes were a different light. One that beamed with a new gleam, but
also managed to be tired and unclear. "Thank you," Sméagol managed to say, 
with a tired and cracked voice. Then he coughed, but it wasn't his usual "gollum",
but a dry hack combined with a heave. Tears rolled down from his eyes from
the pain.

Even Sam was surprised by the gratitude shown to him, but he had little time
to dwell on it, because Sméagol was beginning to suffer from something else
already. He lurched again, and it was clear what was going to happen.

"Sick," Sméagol somehow got out between gasps for air. "I'm going to be sick."
And he started to turn over, mindless of his injuries. "Quick, get him out!"
Frodo cried as he grabbed Sméagol by the shoulders and hoisted him up. Sam
followed suit. They carried him as fast as possible out the cave entrance;
it was now dusk. They laid him down on his stomach.

Sméagol took the opportunity, and crawled over to two rocks that protruded from
the ground. A spasm ripped through his stomach muscles, and up came the
trout from Henneth Anun. Coughing and sputtering could be heard as he spit
the rotten, decayed remnants of fish and digestive enzymes. It made him even
more disgusted as he tasted his own stomach acid, but nothing was left for
him to bring up. After a minute of heavy breathing, and making sure it was
clear from his mouth, he sat up.

Frodo came over. "How are you?" he asked, noticing that Sméagol was visibly
shaken. Sméagol nodded. "No more... all gone... all gone." And he fell back into 
his master's arms. Sam automatically went to fetch some water from his skin, 
confident he would find more later.

Sam remembered when he had a stomach flu once; it was not pleasant. He had
thrown up all he tried to eat and gone a whole day without food, hell for a
hobbit. Remembering the horrid taste left over from it, he sympathized with
Sméagol and knew what he had to do.

"Here," he offered, admittedly a little frightened of his reaction. But
Sméagol took it without further recourse, and took a small amount of the
water into his mouth, rinsed, then spit it out. He repeated the process.

"Don't drink," Sam offered as advice. "You just might throw that back up,
too." Sméagol nodded, understanding the fat hobbit. He handed back the skin; 
despite the fact that he was thirsty, intensely so, he listened. But the
horrid taste in his mouth was thankfully gone.

With right leg and left arm stiffened, he lay back against the stone. The
sun was setting, and it was a surprisingly beautiful sight. Purple filled
the sky and stretched its light throughout the land. They lay there for a
bit, the only sound the breathing of tired souls. No one said anything.
Sméagol stared at the sky, mind dizzy. But Frodo was still next to him, and
gently laid a hand on his thinning scalp. He began to trace around his
pointy ears again, and slowly made it to his shoulder.

"Do you feel any better...?" he asked in a low voice. And Sméagol looked at 
Frodo with wide blue eyes.

"I will never be better, master." He then closed his eyes and looked away. Frodo 
grew silent as his mouth closed and body chilled.

Sam watched, his mind numb and emotions twisted, and the sun disappeared
beneath the horizon. The world fell into darkness as the Ring-bearers both
shed a tear for one another.

A cocoon had formed on a nearby rock; it was the same caterpillar from before. 
The green exterior was just translucent enough to see a sinuous body begin to 
change.

All the while, only one thing echoed in Sméagol's mind. One for centuries, alone, 
in the darkness, was always there, both mentally, and physically.



Hurt.


*****


END PART 1



Author: HazardousRaptor  hazardr@adelphia.net 
 
Pairings: Frodo/Gollum/Sam along with just Frodo/Gollum and Sam/Gollum 
 
Rating: R 
 
Archive: LOM, and anyone else need only ask, I won't refuse! 
 
Summary: After the hobbits were released from Osgiliath, Gollum decided to lead them 
to their doom. But what if he were injured, and they had no choice but to rely on one 
another? What relationships would they form; and what things would they discover about 
their troubled guide? 
 
Disclaimer: “The Lord Of The Rings” is owned by Tolkien Enterprises, this story is 
meant not to encroach on that copyright, I earn absolutely nothing from it. I'm poor, 
everyone I know is poor, don't sue me, I have ten dollars to my name right now, and no, 
you can't have it. 
 
Warning: Tons of hurt/comfort, alternate universe, and people who don't like blood and 
descriptive injuries should probably keep out. 
 
Authors Note: Movieverse, takes place right after the end of TTT. Alternate Universe!
 


When it grew slightly chilly, Frodo and Sam carried the lethargic and sickly Sméagol 
back into the cave. He was laid down several feet from the fire ring. Both hobbits began 
to prepare a fire; they spoke quietly as to not rouse their patient. But their attempts were 
in vain; he was awake, just tired. Eyelids heavy and body limp, he gently rolled over onto 
his back. This interrupted the two’s discussion, which involved different methods of 
starting fires. Sam paused in mid-sentence, and looked over to Sméagol as he groaned 
slightly. 
 
Sméagol remembered making fires… long, long ago. Since Gollum had left permanently, 
memories had slowly begun to find their way back. One of his fondest was the camping 
trips he would take when he was around twenty years old. A young teen to hobbit 
standards. Only Déagol would go with him, and even then that was only a few of the 
times.
 
Usually, it was just him out there in the wilderness. The first hobbit, before Bilbo or any 
of his relatives, to travel outside the borders of town for recreation. Sure, it was only 
camping, but it was looked on as a death-wish by others of his kind. Stoors would travel, 
and enjoyed it. A sense of natural curiosity and mischief, along with the sturdy resilience 
and ability to survive, thrived in their blood. 
 
They prided themselves on being able to withstand the dangers of nearby Mirkwood, 
along with the general disturbances involved with the outside world. Still, they only did it 
when necessary. No normal hobbit was said to do it "just 'cause". Sméagol did, and they 
hated him for it.
 
But no ill ever became of him. He would lie down beside the fire and listen to the crickets 
in the night. Occasionally he would hear a wolf. These were not the horrible mutated and 
unnatural wolves of the goblins, but wise and fair dogs of the wilderness. He often even 
saw a few, and was not afraid of the glorious light they gave off.
 
Sméagol smiled openly at the memory, and then frowned when he remembered when he 
would come home. It was a bittersweet affair. He would be glad to be back where he 
could live in his rich, if crowded, hobbit-hole. His grandma would welcome him back, 
but then give him a list of chores to do. And like always, wouldn’t feed him until he did. 
Then his family and the general public would give him the nastiest looks.
 
He looked at the fire; it was beginning to grow on the small amount of wood that they 
had started it. The image of flickering flame brought back more recent memories, those 
of Mordor. He hated it. It was so barren and choking, despite the large amounts of rocks 
to climb, they were black with ash and soot. They were too pointy… too dank. He had 
lived in the Misty Mountain caverns for centuries, but only out of fear and familiarity. 
Being in the sun reminded him of before…before his thirty-third birthday, when hobbits 
come of age. 
 
It hurt his mind, the sun. And the precious hated it, and so Gollum did as well. And the 
caves were perfect. There was water there, too. He loved to swim and fish, so he never 
left. He got used to hiding and whispering away in dark corners. His memory began to 
fade. Sméagol began to forget how he got there in the first place. He came there sniveling 
and crying, not thinking of salvation, but of hopelessness, never intending to stay there. 
He just wanted to be away… away, alone. And so he turned to his precious; it was all he 
had left.
 
When he left to search for the One Ring, something drew him towards Mordor. Gollum 
made him go there, and never told him why. But as he approached, he was captured and 
tortured. A shiver riveted his body from the memory; the scars of the ordeal were 
permanent, his back lined with whip marks and deep gouges. They also tried to geld him, 
by taking a large and serrated knife and beginning to saw away at the connecting flesh. 
Luckily, they decided about halfway through that it was not working, and that the 
stretcher might work better. Sméagol swore he had never screamed so loudly.
 
When finished, they threw him, literally, out the gates. And before he could escape, he 
was kicked in the stomach several times by a large orc. Then in the face, where he 
managed to lose another of his few teeth and gain a bruised nose. A final kick to the groin 
and he was off, in agony, but alive. He had never crawled so fast in his entire life as he 
did to get away from that horrid place, where the very ground had turned to ash. 
 
He liked dirt, yes, dirt. The raw earth, and all it offered. The plants that grew, the animals 
who shared it. He saw nothing like that in the wasteland that was Mordor. He saw Shelob 
on the way out. She was the only living being besides orcs in that place, and reminded 
him of the spiders he had captured and watched in jars in his youth. And she was oddly 
sparing of his life; he was grateful. He said to her that he hoped one day to help her in 
exchange. Whether he meant it or not, he couldn’t remember.
 
That was the fate he had planned for the hobbits. But he could never do that now. He had 
agreed with Gollum to lead them there. He felt betrayed, scared even. But that was then, 
and this was now. Gollum was gone, and he was in charge of himself now. And it was 
revealed that master had not betrayed him, and in fact, had helped him.
 
No, Shelob would have to wait for the return favor. She wasn’t getting these two…even 
if Sam was horrid to him. He had given him water, set his bones. No, she could have an 
orc, or nothing, even. She didn’t matter anymore. They mattered; he could see it now. 
Being apart from them now felt unbearable.
 
That’s why he had stopped the two at the Black Gate. He didn’t want Frodo to suffer the 
same horror he had. He briefly imagined his master being gouged, and whipped into 
submission. Orcs tearing the flesh of his groin, laughing at his pain. Then those horrible 
streching devices, which had finally broken him, the precious being stolen, and taken by 
‘him’. Even he wasn’t sure which had scared him more. All he knew was that he 
wouldn’t have it, couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t let them go. And if they had gone, 
Sméagol didn’t question that he would have followed them in. Even he didn’t know what 
he would do next.
 
The fire grew. Flames spread to the inner edge of the ring. More dead wood was piled on. 
Sam wished he had something to toss on, and smiled briefly at the idea of Sméagol 
somehow being able to catch a deer out in the woods and haul it back. But no, that 
lembas he had back a while ago would last. His stomach still craved something ‘solid’, 
however.
 
With a sigh, he considered the fish. But he knew Sméagol was not up to that task, yet. 
Maybe later. So instead, they all watched the fire, a different thought in each of their 
minds. Occasionally, the former ring bearer would twitch, sigh, or open his eyes, almost 
as though he were reliving something. But they all remained silent.
 
It was Frodo who spoke up. “Well, I’m ready to go to sleep.” And as he did he yawned. 
Sam nodded in acknowledgement. He stood up and walked over to the water, but stopped 
when he realized they all might need some light first. They rolled out their makeshift 
beds, blankets with a small pillow, and positioned next to one another. Dragging them, he 
determined they would sleep to the right of Sméagol’s rock bed. Just in case he would 
need help in the middle of the night, which he had hoped dearly wouldn’t happen.
 
Then came the tricky situation with what to do with their injured friend. Frodo noticed 
this, and began to look for what they could salvage for his own bed. He felt as though he 
didn’t need a blanket, he could use his own elven cloak. Yet he wanted his friend to 
contribute to make Sméagol feel accepted. “Sam,” he asked, “you can use my pillow 
tonight, I have my….” And he fumbled for an excuse.  “We can share mine. Give yours 
to Sméagol, please?” Sam nodded, but gave him a strange glare. 
 
Frodo laid down his older cloak, the one he had worn when he came to Lothlórien. He 
had kept it stowed away, just in case. He felt it best for him to sleep on that strange bed-
like carving. It made it easier to attend to him from there. It was just their height, and it 
was better then the flat rock they had for beds. He then put down Sam’s pillow, fluffing 
it. 
 
Sméagol had lain quiet on the ground, and had stopped his writhing. He was silent as they 
lifted him onto his temporary bed. Laying him flat, Frodo realized this must have been 
the first time in ages that Sméagol's spine was straight. It cracked a bit, but it almost felt 
like a relief. He was about an inch taller than Frodo, the last remnants of firelight dancing 
on his pale features.
 
Frodo draped the blanket over him, and it managed to cover him whole. He looked across 
to his master with a small smile. “Thank you for the nice… things…” It took him a while 
to say it, but it was out.
 
“You are very welcome, Sméagol,” Frodo said with a smile, very glad that he had at least 
enjoyed it. “Have you… ever slept in a bed, before… before…” He slipped on his 
phrasing. 
 
“Yes… before.” Then Sméagol paused, and turned his head. "Used to sleep on a big, 
comfy bed. Used to sleep on my stomach…” And as he said that, he gradually shifted in 
his position. He would stop occasionally, and change his movement to something less 
painful. 
 
Frodo helped him, and Sméagol finally found his way to a comfortable position on his 
stomach, arms tucked beneath him. But the broken arm was articulated so that it lay away 
from his own crushing weight. His legs slightly crossed one another. Despite his injuries, 
he felt it the most comfortable way to sleep. Frodo repositioned his covers. Even if 
Sméagol was hot, the blanket would be good for him, he felt.
 
“Is that good?” he asked, hoping for a positive answer.

With a small smile, Sméagol answered. “It is good, master. You do good things for 
Sméagol… why?” And Frodo didn’t need to search for a response at all.
 
“Because I believe you can be saved.” And he melted Sméagol's heart with a kind glance. 
“Now go to sleep. I’ll be right here if you need anything.” He reached over and grabbed 
one of Sam’s pots, grimacing at the reaction he would get if Sam ever found out. “This is 
here if you need to throw up again…though I think it’s best just to tell me. Just for an 
emergency, I guess.” 
 
Then he leaned over, gently kissed Sméagol on the forehead, and held his hand. 
“Tomorrow we’ll clean up those wounds. And maybe we can have a big fish dinner. 
Does that sound good?” And Sméagol nodded, heartily. “Goodnight, Sméagol. Sleep 
well.” 
 
Frodo put out the fire, and he lay down next to Sam. He said goodnight to him, waking 
him up in the process, but then promptly fell back into a hazy sleep. 
 
Sméagol lay awake for a short time and felt the strange and foreign pleasures of a bed. It, 
too, brought back memories, but he didn’t want to think of any more as he was trying to 
rest. For a moment, the Gollum presence that still lingered taunted him, but he was 
immune to it now. The power of the Ring was impossible to resist, but he was familiar 
with Gollum's trickery, and steered clear of it. He promised himself he would not fall 
down into that dark pit again. He would not fail his master. He had made a promise, just 
like Sam had; he would not disappoint Frodo. And in doing so, he would help them both, 
though he was unaware of that.
 
The older hobbit loved the comfort that the blanket gave him. He snuggled into its every 
inch, and made a small bundle of it for him to clutch in reassurance as he slept. The 
pillow held Sam’s unique, rough scent. But he liked it; it reminded him of his own days 
working in his grandmother’s garden. He enjoyed it, but it was hard, laborious work. And 
he would much rather be fishing with the very worms he picked out of the ground as he 
dug.
 
He breathed deep, and smiled. “This just might work, Sméagol, this just might work….” 
And Sméagol was gently lulled into sleep by the smell of Gamgee, the comfort of 
Frodo’s kindness, and the soft breathing of both hobbits at the foot of his bed. The very 
idea that they were there, for him, was enough.
 

 
Sam awoke first the next morning. Joints and body aching, but still well enough to feel 
remotely good. He groaned, and moved his hands through his hair. His thoughts then 
turned to Frodo, who was still asleep beside him, his tired face a mixture of exhaustion 
and kindness. But then Sam looked at his master’s hands, and noticed how they grasped 
the Ring hidden under his shirt. His feet moved, stretching against one another, and he 
mumbled something undecipherable in his sleep. 
 
Disturbed, Sam shook Frodo awake. He woke with a start, and squeezed the Ring tightly. 
With fright in his eyes, he scanned the room. As he saw Sam, he calmed down, but his 
grip on the Ring remained the same. “Oh Sam…” he cried out, and breathed out in relief. 
“It’s just you…” And then he lay back down, eyes open and awake.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Sam asked, a little on edge. 
 
Frodo shook his head, his glorious black curls shifting. “Just… you startled me.” He then 
sighed, and looked back at his dear friend. “Did you sleep well?”

Sam looked at the floor and considered. “Well enough, I suppose.”
 
Frodo smiled in response. “That’s all we need right now, I guess.” Both shared a smile 
and a small laugh. After lying for a few minutes, Frodo was suddenly filled with worry 
when he remembered Sméagol. He swiftly turned his head, and looked at his companion 
across the room; now he lay with his face to the wall, his back to them. His breathing was 
nearly silent, and both could barely hear it.
 
Concerned, Frodo gently rose to his feet to check him over. He reached the bed, and 
silently watched. During the night Sméagol had shifted to a slightly different position. 
Now he slept partially on his side. All the while he breathed slowly and peacefully. His 
long dark hair was swept over in front of his face, large squat fingers spread out on the 
rocks.
 
Looking like a sleeping child. Frodo smiled to himself. He appeared so innocent, yet was 
tainted by the power of Sauron. Occasionally... he would twitch in his sleep. A full 
body shake would follow. His face would clench and appear frightened…and then he 
would return to his peaceful state.
 
Frodo decided to let him sleep. Eru knew he certainly needed it. And so, with a slightly 
lightened heart, he walked back to Sam. The two spent the morning without the company 
of Sméagol, for once. They talked of the current situation. Both decided they would have 
to be here for at least a week. And even then, they doubted the nursing of his wounds 
would end there. No one even mentioned what would happen post-quest.
 
Just then, the sound of an awakening Sméagol could be heard from across the cavern. 
They both sat up, but it was Sam, strangely enough, who began to walk over. Frodo tried 
to speak, but found it hard to find what to say. So instead he closed his mouth and 
watched.
 
Sam stood before the stone bed, and watched as Sméagol rolled over onto his back. His 
eyes slowly blinked open and adjusted to the dank light. He became aware of a twinge of 
pain in his ribcage and still-healing injuries, their aches beginning to return. He let out a 
low groan, and then noticed the figure that was staring at him, fascinated. 
 
“Did you sleep well?” Sam asked. His voice was gruff, but there was an ounce of 
kindness in there somewhere. Sméagol’s eyes widened a touch as he tried to comprehend 
just what the hell was going on. "Since when did he care how I thought? Or how I’m 
doing, as a matter of fact…?" he wondered.
 
It took him a minute to register, then respond. “…Yes,” he croaked out. Hearing how 
horrible he sounded, he then cleared his throat several times.

“Does it… still hurt?” Sam asked as his gaze drifted to his exposed arm.

“Yes. It aches… but it’s better than before.”

Sam nodded to show he understood. “Does anything else hurt? You know, besides the 
obvious…?” Again, Sméagol was amazed that the other hobbit cared, but nodded with a 
slight hesitation.
 
“Yes… my ribs.”

Sam then slowly pulled back the blanket to reveal Sméagol's thin chest. Because his 
ribcage was so visible, it was easy to see which one was broken. The third to the right 
was clearly bruised heavily. Dark blue-and-black veins and markings traveled from its 
ruined epicenter. Sam bit his lip in thought; he didn’t know how he would fix that.
 
Frodo stood up, despite Sam’s urging to rest. He walked over to see just what the state of 
their patient was. Sméagol blushed in embarrassment at the new level of attention given 
too him. Before he knew it, the two were poking and prodding at him and discussing 
ways to heal the various ailments he sported.
 
"I wonder what we can do about these bruises..." remarked Sam as he soothed his fingers 
along a few located on his right arm. Sméagol winced a bit from the touch, but allowed 
it.  "Neither do I..."  And Frodo sighed as he tried to think.
 
Sméagol closed his eyes and simply let them do what they needed to. One of them, he 
didn’t know who, put a hand on his head to check his temperature. “He’s not that hot…” 
Sam commented. “He’s a bit chilled, though.” And almost on cue, Sméagol shivered and 
formed a few goosebumps. Sméagol never noticed it until now, the chill, but now that he 
did it was overpowering. If it weren't for the two hobbits assessing him now, he would 
have pulled the covers over and attempted to warm up.
 
But no, his body was exposed, and was rather embarrassed by the whole thing. 
“Sméagol?” His master asked. He opened his eyes in response. “Does anything else 
hurt?”
 
This made Sméagol shy away, blushing even worse now. Frodo noticed, and 
automatically knew what was wrong. “I see…” he muttered, giving Sam a worried look. 
 
Then a rather obvious feeling arose inside the thin hobbit. “I have to go…” he whispered, 
and tugged at Frodo’s sleeve. Again, thankfully, he didn’t have to elaborate. His master 
understood, and looked at his companion.

“We have to help him outside.”

Sam wordlessly agreed, taking his place at Sméagol’s legs to hoist him up. They 
hurriedly carried him out into the spilling sunshine, and then set him down on the hard 
rock.

Sméagol rolled over onto his tender stomach and slowly began to crawl. His joints ached 
from not moving properly in hours. Frodo followed silently behind him, making sure he 
got there all right. He crested a small ridge, all the while moving in awkward jerks and 
spiking pain. As he moved, he slipped a bit and cursed under his breath. But there was 
Frodo, there to catch him before he fell down the small crest. 
 
Sméagol looked back to the younger hobbit, who held his uninjured shoulder. His face 
filled with surprise and sadness. “Here…” Frodo offered, and bent down to take his right 
arm around on his back. They held onto one another, and the two bearers of the One ring, 
current and former, helped one another up the small hill.
 
They reached the other side, a short journey made long by Sméagol’s handicap. Frodo let 
him down, and turned. Sniffling and once again embarrassed, Sméagol moved away a 
few more feet and, painfully, managed to urinate. He had to sit and breath for a few 
minutes, the agony was too deep. After he was finally finished, he fixed himself up and 
made his way, grudgingly over to his master.
 
Frodo had heard the pain Sméagol was trying to suppress. But he said nothing; after all, 
what could he possibly do about it anyway?
 
Bending low, he again helped him down the small rock crest towards Sam, who was 
waiting all too urgently for their return. When he caught sight of them, his worry faded.
 
The two then went back inside, but Sméagol could still feel an intense amount of pain 
from his genitals. He lay back against the cool rock bed, sweat forming beads even 
though he was chilled. The two other companions were busying themselves with what 
was to be done today. Frodo was trying to convince Sam that a fish dinner would work 
well for all of them, but his arms continued to shake, and a black cloud was beginning to 
descend over him, his mind fuzzing over with anguish. He let out a low warble.
 
His master stood, and looked over in his direction. And there lay Sméagol, a look of pain 
and torture in his face. Frodo hurriedly stepped over next to him, concerned to see what 
had happened now. “What’s wrong, Sméagol?” 
 
He gasped in response, and waved Frodo closer. Slowly, modestly, he whispered what 
the problem was. “It hurts… down there…." And he turned his head away. Frodo sighed, 
contemplating what to do. 
 
Gollum had never cared about much about modesty, but Sméagol was always easily 
embarrassed and rather private. They reached a compromise to keep the remnants of his 
pants, which had worn away to become a scant loincloth. He often kept things to himself, 
even horrible illnesses that were easily treatable.
 
Frodo still had yet to clean Sméagol's other wounds, that seemed to be the next step. 
Something about his behavior seemed to indicate that he didn’t want Sam to know about 
his private problem. Frodo knew, however, that he would need his help as well.
 
“Sam, we need to do something with these cuts, gashes….” He trailed off. “He’s hurting, 
and… I don’t know what else to do but clean him up some more.” Sam hung his head and 
ran his hand through his sandy blonde hair. “I can see what I can cook up… you know, 
for the pain…” he muttered, testing out ideas. With another sigh, he rubbed his neck. 
“Maybe some soup for his flu or fever, or whatever he’s got. You have to get him to eat 
it, though….” Frodo nodded. He knew it would be hard, but even if it took all night, and 
he had to pour it down his throat, so be it. Sméagol had to get better; there was no other 
option.
 
He wasn’t sure whether Sméagol had heard any of that or not, but it had to be done 
regardless. Frodo’s mind whirred with possibilities. Sméagol needed to be comforted as 
well as cleansed. And he only knew one way to do that.
 
Frodo looked over to the fish pool; it was bigger then he remembered. A slightly larger, 
mostly empty basin ran alongside it. It looked as though it could be filled if needed. 
“Sam, start making a fire…” he thought aloud, then began to help himself. “I’m going to 
give him a bath," he whispered into his companion’s ear.
 
“What?!” Sam asked, incredulous. Frodo looked back to Sméagol; he hadn’t reacted to 
the outburst. “I know… but he needs to relax, and those wounds are still filthy. Not to 
mention he’s just plain dirty in general. It’s the healthy thing to do. We have plenty of 
water, and there’s a depression in the rock over there….” He waved his hand in its 
general direction.
 
Sam considered that, then let out a breath he had been holding for the duration of Frodo's 
explanation. “Whatever you say, Mr. Frodo. But you have to do it….” Frodo nodded to 
show his understanding. The fire was made with the rest of the dry wood, and water was 
scooped from the small fish pond. With the small stream refilling it, it became a 
invaluable resource. 
 
Pot after pot was boiled, eleven all together, and collected into a small bathing pool. Sam 
briefly considered taking a bath himself. His back ached from the strenuous lifting and 
toiling over the wretch. But at the thought of joining them, his skin crawled, and he sat 
down instead to try and relax.
 
Frodo collected the soap and washrag. He also carried over a small towel he had stored 
away. Sam watched as he stood, and appeared to think for a moment. Then he removed 
the Elven cloak, undoing the brooch, folding it, and setting it aside. 
 
And then his master walked over to Sméagol, who lay there whining. He said something 
to him, low and indecipherable. Then their patient hesitated, and Sam got up and walked 
a bit closer.
 
“Come now, Sméagol,” Frodo urged. “I’m going to give you a nice, warm bath. You 
need it desperately. Do you remember the last time you bathed?”

The question took its effect on Sméagol, and it almost brought him to tears. “A long time 
ago…." And he left it at that.
 
Sam bit his lip, trying to resist the temptation to run over there and change Frodo’s mind. 
He knew nothing he said would matter. “So, you do remember? Do you remember how 
nice it was?” Sméagol closed his eyes, seemed to think for a moment, and then nodded. 
“Well, now you can have one. The water is warm, there’s soap, and….” He paused for a 
moment and tried to think up more. “And I’ll help you, I’ll be there. Come on now, I’ll 
help you…” he repeated, gently leaning forward. Frodo wrapped his arms around the 
sweaty figure and slowly began to sit him up.
 
And as he sat up, Sméagol exploded into a cough, a normal, dry cough and not of the 
raspy sort “Gollum” usually made. He fell into Frodo’s embrace; even he was surprised. 
Sam rushed over and helped his master bear the light and fragile load. Sméagol’s hot 
breath hit his face, and Sam flinched in response. He didn’t catch a whiff, but it still left a 
horrid expression on his face. 
 
They both carried their pain-stricken friend and set him down at his new bathing pool. 
Sméagol took his time in sitting up and rubbed his head with his right hand. He gazed 
absently at the warm pool. Steam rose from its flat, translucent surface. Again, Sam bit 
his lip. He really wanted to take a bath, too. The dirt had formed into the crevices in his 
skin, growing more irritated by the day.
 
That was it. The temptation was too strong, and with a nervous fidgeting, he began to 
undo the brooch that held his cloak together. Sméagol gently swayed back and forth, hazy 
and oblivious to the current situation. But Frodo gently caught him, whispering 
something reassuring into his pointy ear.
 
He watched as Frodo began to remove the dirtied cloths that had acted as bandages. Each 
had an all- encompassing blood stain that had since turned brown or dark red. He tossed 
each one in the water, hoping to clean them as he bathed. With great care, he removed the 
splints and sat them aside for future use. His healing limbs were still tender, no doubt.
 
But he still kept his new loincloth, at least for now. Sméagol asked for it specifically, in a 
whisper in his master’s ear before he started. "Why is he so modest, anyway?" Frodo 
wondered, curious. Surely, they were all males here. Perhaps all those years alone had 
taken a toll on his sexuality?
 
Frodo proceeded to remove the rest of his clothing. Sam was still nervous and timid in 
this situation, but he watched, making sure to be near if any help was needed. Still pretty 
much out of it, Sméagol was dragged fragilely into the shallow end of the pool. His naked 
master shifted him into a safe position, then walked around and hopped into the slightly 
deeper end. It came up to his chest.
 
“Sam, you coming in?” Frodo asked. Sam's only answer was a swift derobing, following 
suit and jumping carefully into the steaming warm water. 
 
Sméagol lay in the enveloping heat, a small incline holding his head above the water. He 
helped keep himself up with his uninjured leg, and his good arm, which gripped a nearby 
rock. His eyes were still closed, mind still hazy from the pain emanating from his groin. 
But he did feel the water, glad to be in his favorite element again. Only this time a unique 
sensation came over his body, the steamy warmth relaxing his constantly tensed muscles; 
he laid his head back and took it all in. 
 
Inside his body a war that rivaled any known battle in history was taking place. White 
blood cells flew about, attacking and killing as much invading bacteria as it could find. 
Sméagol was winning, but only by a thin margin. The newly introduced heat of the 
bathing pool was enough to boil away newly advancing enemies at the wound front. The 
swellings had gone down, and the pus lessened. And now blood clots were finally 
beginning to form over the large gashes and lesions, though slowly and poorly.
 
A slight stinging sensation was felt at the open cuts, but he knew that this was a good 
thing. Nobody in Middle-Earth at this time knew of the small micro-organisms that 
caused disease and sickness, but they did know what worked and what didn’t. 
 
Sméagol's mind was gradually winning a slightly different battle. The brain cells present 
were working overtime, and the ones that had been damaged from Gollum’s nasty 
presence were thankfully not dead, but dormant. Some were steadily awaking; others, 
however, would not do so until the Ring was truly gone. For as long as he was in its evil 
presence, the steadily healing Sméagol would never be safe.
 
Addiction was a terrible thing, and the Ring worked in many ways. It chose its victims, 
which is why some fell to its deception more than others. It could wield you and use you, 
and no one was safe. Not even a curious Stoor hobbit on a warm spring day.
 
Like a rubber band, his mind snapped back from that painful memory to the current 
day. They were now filtering back like some obscure dream, but he saw them as more of 
a nightmare. He still longed for the feel of the ‘precious’ in his hands, and remembered 
when it used to comfort him. Used to whisper untrue things into his ear.
 
His right hand balled into a fist, clenching so hard it turned white and drew blood. When 
it lied to him, now that he could think, it lied to him. No more.
 
The pain was gently beginning to ebb away. Sméagol heard the slight commotion of 
water shifting. He opened his eyes to see the two hobbits naked, standing in the water and 
beginning to lather up with the soap. Cocking his head in a surprised fashion, he began to 
sit up.
 
Frodo noticed, and looked over in his direction. Sméagol sat up completely, backbone 
curving ever so slightly. Even on the small and shallow ledge he sat on, the water came 
up to his waist. He breathed deep, the hot air making it slightly difficult. His dark, loosely 
curled, fragile, dry yet soft hair usually looked brown and lightweight. But the addition of 
water bogged it down and clumped it up. Now it appeared black, and a hint of its 
curliness returned as a tragic reminder of its former glory. It hung partially in front of his 
face, and the other behind his pointy ears.

“You see, doesn't this feel good, Sméagol?” his master asked with a smile. He then 
slowly walked closer to his companion, and held out his hand. “Here, why don’t you 
come in deeper?”
 
Sméagol had to admit, it felt wonderful. It was almost like feeling years of grime wash 
away. So he took his master’s hand, and he gently let himself fall into the deeper end 
with the two other hobbits. Sam took a step back, a look of nervousness on his face.
 
The water held Sméagol aloft, only occasionally needing to balance on his left leg, 
moving with his right arm. He could even move his broken limbs a little without much 
pain. The water did wonders.
 
“It’s good, master,” Sméagol spoke up. “It helps.” And he dipped his head below the 
surface for a moment to wet his head. Frodo smiled, comforted by his well-being. 
Sméagol reached below the surface and grabbed at his own loincloth, untying it. It had 
been bloodied as well. He lay back against the wall of the pool and let the warmth of the 
water have its full effect on his mutilated body.
 
Frodo watched as the emaciated being tried to relax himself. It gave him a sense of 
satisfaction that he was able to help the tortured soul. He continued to lather himself up, 
relieved to get off the filth that he'd managed to collect from the journey. Rubbing the 
soap through his hair, he managed to clean his black curls. Running his hands through his 
hair, he massaged his dirty scalp, then dipped into the water to try and rinse it through.
 
After he felt he was finished, Frodo handed the rag and bar of soap to Sam. He, too, 
began to wash. Then Frodo turned back to Sméagol, watching as he opened his eyes a 
little. He shifted slightly in his step and leaned less against the rock. Making a deep noise 
in his throat, he wiped some dried fluids from his eyes with his free hand. 
 
Then Sméagol slipped a little, but managed to catch himself. A look of surprise came to 
his eyes, though. Concerned, the Ring-bearer took a step forward, and he knew what he 
most likely had to do. Sméagol looked up at his master as he approached him. “Master?” 
He asked in that sad, timid voice.
 
“Hush. Here....” And Frodo ignored Sam’s presence as he wrapped his arms around the 
lithe figure. His back to his other friend, he kept Sméagol elevated slightly above the rock 
bottom. Sméagol let out a wistful sigh and fell back into his embrace. Right then, nothing 
else mattered. He knew that Sam’s eyes were burrowing into his back. Who wouldn’t 
stare at the obvious scene beginning to unfold?
 
Sam couldn’t turn away; he merely stood, paralyzed and silent, staring at the two. What 
had started as a caring relationship between them had grown and become something 
more. It wasn’t necessarily sexual, just a desire to get closer, by any means necessary. 
They were bound to one another; Frodo merely wanted to bring the two halves together.
 
“What’s master doing?” Sméagol asked, a confused and bewildered tone in his voice. 
Even Frodo didn’t know; he simply held him closer to his chest, Sméagol’s head in the 
underside of his neck. 

“Trust master, Sméagol. Trust us.” And Frodo gently kissed his thinning scalp. Sméagol 
shivered in his arms and snuggled closer. 
 
Then the sound of Sam steadily approaching became apparent. Frodo froze in his actions; 
the only reason he had never proceeded was because Sam was always near. Always 
watching. 
 
Sam came close, body still covered in soap. But his gaze was not of hate or sickness, but 
of desperation. “I know I can’t stop you…” he whispered into Frodo's ear, “so I might as 
well join you…." And he looked down into the stressed, tensed face of Sméagol. Biting 
his lip and closing his eyes, he leaned forward and began to dig his face into his thin 
shoulder, inhaling his unique scent and savoring the pure taboo they were engaging in.
 
Sam looked up with sorrowful eyes, unsure of what even he wanted. Frodo’s mouth was 
slightly open in surprise and astonishment. He was naked, except for the chain around his 
neck, on it the object of Sméagol’s obsession. 
 
But Frodo noticed he never reached for it, shying away from its presence. He no longer 
feared him, and put his full trust in the older, wiser, hobbit. Frodo, along with Sam, began 
to kiss Sméagol along the shoulder. But Sam was also washing him tenderly, all along his 
chest.
 
Sméagol looked as though he didn’t know how to react, eyes swiftly darting from one to 
the other. He wasn’t even sure whether he wanted it; the idea of Sam touching him… like 
that... was both alien and frightening. “Sam mustn't…no, you mustn't….” Then he 
moaned softly as San nipped the corner of his right ear; he had found his sweet spot.
 
Sméagol twitched in his master’s arms, and it was apparent to both at this point that he 
was beginning to grow aroused. Panting, he let his head loll over to his right and peered 
at the entrance of the cave. Eyes slowly closing, he yielded easily to temptation. 
 
Frodo watched as Sam moved the washcloth over Sméagol’s pale and dirtied skin, soap 
suds left in its wake. The bearer of the Ring held him firmly in place as he was gently 
cleansed. It wouldn’t end there, however. With a new vigor, he nuzzled his patient’s face 
and shoulders, his hot breath traveling over his chilled back, causing him to shiver and 
response. 
 
For at least an hour the three did just this, never going too far; they were afraid to, 
perhaps. Sam never dared travel below the nether-regions. He ran the soap through 
Sméagol's few loose strands of hair, then gently began to message his scalp. Frodo 
moved his hands upward and helped, moving his head slightly in jerks here and there, 
scooping up some water then, pouring it over him to rinse.
 
Sméagol's ear was being teased again. He fell back into his master’s body, shaking with 
rising sexual energy. Someone had to make a step forward, and it was Frodo. He leaned 
over to his companion and whispered into his ear. Sam looked at his master with a gaze 
of complete and utter horror, but Frodo's face was stern, stare blank. So Sam swallowed, 
then nodded, and understood completely. “But be gentle…” Frodo added. “He says it still 
hurts.”
 
Sam reluctantly dropped to his knees and inspected the package before him. Sméagol’s 
genitals were lined with deep scratches and horrible blisters; he could see them below 
under the surface of the water. There were horrible welts above each testicle, and it was 
obvious to Sam what had been attempted on him. They appeared to have stopped right 
before they got to the spermatic cord; he still appeared capable of ejaculating, though it 
looked as though it could be painful. Sam's skin crawled at the thought.
 
Frodo moved his hands down Sméagol's thin and wiry backbone, trying his best to please 
him, love him. Then Sméagol jerked, and let out a low groan at another’s touch. His 
breath became shallow, voice high-pitched. 
 
Sam closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and then with a slow reluctance placed his mouth 
over Sméagol's shaft. There appeared to be small jolts of pain and unease, but low moans 
made their way through. Frodo wrapped his arms around Sméagol even tighter, afraid he 
might slip and injure himself again. 
 
Switching from his mouth to his hands, Sam sensed the buildup of Sméagol's soon-to-be 
orgasm. He spit several times, a look of horrid disgust awash on his face, but still, he 
continued. Then it happened; Sméagol bucked into his hands with sudden force, and 
along with a squeal of pain, fluid was collected for use in the next act.
 
It was transferred to the awaiting hands of Frodo, who spread it over his very erect 
member, where it joined the already releasing pre-cum. Then he eagerly pushed inside 
the tortured being. He pushed inside fully, until his chest was against Sméagol's thin 
back, arms around his chest, face pressed into the back of his neck. Sméagol’s reaction 
was sudden; he cried out a bit in pain from the sudden penetration. Closing his eyes, 
Frodo stopped so that Sméagol could grow accustomed to the feel of him deep within 
him. The warbling lowered, and Sméagol's breathing became less labored.
 
“Does it hurt…?” Frodo asked, scared that he might be causing the already hurt being 
more pain. 

Sméagol nodded a little, but just as Frodo was about to reluctantly pull out, he reached 
back and grabbed his arm. “No, stay…” And so he did.
 
Sam embraced the steadily accommodating Sméagol; he could no longer stand being left 
out of the loop. He gently kissed any amount of skin he could find, bile rising in his 
stomach all the while. Then he reached to his left to collect the rag and soap. He was no 
longer shy, and washed Sméagol as Frodo began to thrust.
 
Frodo cried out in obvious pleasure, feeling as though he had truly reached a new level 
with Sméagol, who was now crying just like himself. Nearing climax, he looked over to 
Sam to see his arms wrapped around their patient. Because that’s exactly who he was; 
their job was to heal this poor soul.
 
‘He's getting therapy, all right,’ Frodo thought, and he smiled as he reached orgasm.
 
 
For Sméagol, the rest of the night was a literal blur. Although he didn’t black out, he 
phased out of reality to awake later in the night.
 
Sam, however, was all too awake. But now he was in a sort of daze, mind fuzzing over as 
he gently rinsed the satisfied Sméagol off and carried him out of the pool. Frodo 
continued to wash off the remnants of their union, then slowly exited the still-steaming 
water. 
 
Sam managed to carry Sméagol up and out all by himself, Sméagol’s body dripping with 
moisture. Almost mindlessly, Sam sat him down next to the bare fire ring and retrieved a 
towel from Frodo’s pack. He handed it to his dark-haired friend; none of them spoke. 
Even thinking was muted. Frodo finished by rubbing his hair dry, then gave the towel 
back to Sam.
 
After thoroughly drying himself, he swiftly moved to their patient. Frodo helped, and 
kneeled down to lift him up into a sitting position. His hair was gently wiped dry, the 
fingernails picked free of any grime left over, the only moisture present in the curves of 
his ears. Eyes closed, Sméagol sighed in a heavenly manner and fell against the still 
naked Sam; he jerked in response, but was too degenerated to move him. Instead, 
Sméagol fell into a deep, deep sleep in his strong arms.
 
 
They sat for at least an hour in silence. It turned to darkness outside. Sam, in all his 
tenderness, managed to re-bandage Sméagol’s arm and leg. He still remained naked, 
however, as the other Elven-made bandages were being washed due to their blood and 
pus stains. They now resided at the bottom of the bathing pool, soaking in the soapy 
water.
 
Sméagol lay now on his side, his steadily drying brown hair matted and lying about. One 
could have sworn it had grown a few inches longer, his eyes closed in a comfy sleep. 
Frodo lovingly placed his blanket atop him, and made sure that he had another soft 
blanket beneath him. Sam saw his master smile as he rubbed the injured hobbit’s head in 
fond memory.
 
“He’s getting better…you know," Frodo said, breaking the sacred silence. Sam looked 
up, face blank, as he had grown pale and sickly from the experience. Frodo gazed 
downwards, not wanting to lock eyes with his friend.
 
“...I know,” Sam muttered. “He’s defiantly different. Even I can see that….” And he 
trailed off as he turned his head towards the cave entrance. The sweet sound of crickets 
and frogs filled the air, casting a nightly harmony that seemed to fit the mood.
 
“Listen Sam, I’m…I…." And then he sighed, and gripped the bridge of his nose in 
sudden stress. “I’m sorry I made you do that. I should have never, even… washed him, I 
mean, I knew it would drive me to that, and I did it anyway.” 
 
Sam nodded, and sat for a long moment in the dark. “I can still taste him, you know," he 
stated plainly. “I’m just glad I didn’t have to swallow.” 
 
Frodo jerked, and stared at his friend, who sat across from him. “I would never make you 
do that…." And another silence spread across the room.
 
“Thank you, though,” Frodo stated, once again stopping the quiet, “…for helping me help 
him.” He  smiled a bit, all to show his dear companion everything was all right.
 
“Well, you're welcome, Mr. Frodo.” And he smiled faintly back. His master then looked 
in the direction of the sleeping Sméagol sitting several feet away from them. 
 
“I don’t even like other hobbit men, you know, like that,” he said truthfully. “It’s just, I 
care about him, Sam. Like I said before, I want to help him. I can see myself in him, if 
you believe that. I can see beyond what he has become, and hope... and hope… that 
everything can be all right. You know?”
 
Sam looked up and into his master’s eyes, finally beginning to see what he had meant all 
along. He watched as Frodo's eyes began to fill with tears.
 
“It’s just… it’s just that I think he needs to feel what love is. We need each other, maybe 
not like that… like what we just had. That was my first time, you know…” 
 
Nodding, Sam replied, “Me too…”
 
“…and, well, I enjoyed it. And I think he did too. And that’s all right, isn't it? Did you, 
Sam?” he asked.
 
“Well… a little, I suppose.” Sam turned his head away from them both, and shook down 
the whole length of his body, shamed and tingling with embarrassment.
 
“I think it helped him,” Frodo then said, lip trembling; then he smiled again. He leaned 
forward and put a hand on Sam’s lonely shoulder. “And that’s what we’re here to do, 
right?” Swallowing hard, both nodded, both agreed.
 
From then on, there would be no more argument over what had happened that day. They 
both accepted it as both a act of compassion for Sméagol, and a need to be somehow 
closer to the tortured soul. And it wouldn’t end there.
 
 
The battle of the wounds was nearing its end within his body. A sickness still thrived in 
his mind and stomach, however, temperature both rising and falling into extremes. His 
bruises lightened to more of a blue color. The abrasions scabbed over, even the horrid 
head and leg gouges. And below the waist, he was beginning to feel remotely normal 
again.
 
Lying on the unusually soft floor, he was enshrouded by the hobbit’s blankets, both 
donated to the cause, his head and injured leg supported by recently fluffed pillows. 
Unusually for him, he lay sprawled on his back, head turned to his left, body twisted at 
the waist. The injured left arm was out to his side, the other bent at the elbow with his 
fingers inches from his forehead. His right leg lay on the pillow, straight, the left bent and 
overlapping it.
 
The blanket was wrapped around his waist, discreet in covering the night’s healing. His 
chest was partially covered, and his feet swathed haphazardly from his own moving. 
Sméagol swore that he'd never felt this good, at least after the Ring came to him. He felt 
clean and refreshed, despite never liking to take baths. Oh, his family had the money and 
desire for it, but he was still the least cleaned of all his kin.
 
But this, this was nice. That feeling of dirt rubbing between his joints was gone, although 
he'd never realized he had it. However, when it was gone, it felt sweet. Finally, he felt 
cared about. And he had never expected it from those two. Never once expected… love. 
In that form or another.
 
He purred gently in his sleep, sounding very much like a cat in heat, then pulled the 
blanket even closer, breathing in full the scent that covered it. He blocked out all noise, 
his sleep deep and strong. Inside his mind whirred thoughts of the pool. He now knew 
this as the ‘real’ forbidden pool, for the actions in it were all but accepted. This pool was 
a much more memorable affair then the previous one.
 
But his dreams slowly faded to memories of the past, intertwined with the future. He was 
truly Sméagol again, fully clothed in those blackish brown jacket and pants, and with a 
full head of hair that he never maintained. His body healthy, skin a normal, sun-baked 
tone. Master and the Sam-hobbit were there with him. They sat under a huge tree, next to 
his favorite shore-fishing spot along the Gladden. 
 
He showed them all the beauty of the Gladden Fields, and the Stoor’s Shire, which was 
equally beautiful and even richer then Hobbiton at its time. No one lived to remember it, 
except, that is, himself. He didn’t know it, but the remnants of his family would later 
leave the Gladden and thrive in Buckland, interbreeding with the locals and forming the 
Old Bucks and Brandybucks, water-loving like the genes that made them. And although 
not shunned from hobbit society, they were never fully accepted. The Stoors also tended 
to be a tad more adventuresome, and often got into mischief, some more than others. 
Merry and Pippin couldn’t possibly have guessed that their behavior could be partially 
explained by their own blood.
 
Frodo was half Brandybuck, therefore half Stoor… and so, he was half Sméagol. The 
same blood beat through their veins. The same genetics made up their body tissue. Their 
genes were like a roadmap, leading them on a path to one another.
 
And both, at their coming of age, had found the One Ring. At thirty-three, little had they 
known that they were both the same age. The year the Ring took them, their growth and 
aging ceased. Frodo was beginning to show the signs, and just like Sméagol, madness 
was encroaching on his mind and darkness creeping onto his soul. 
 
But not in Sméagol’s dreams, oh, no. The two other hobbits smoked, occasionally 
offering it to him. He would take it, but would cough too heavily to keep it up. He never 
did care for it much. But he would smile and laugh, play-hitting his two companions. 
 
Then Sméagol smiled and looked towards the water. Lilies with pink flowers dotted the 
emerald green. Yellow Flag Irises, his favorite flower, grew everywhere. They were 
abundant here. The fields themselves were known and named after them. The sun 
reflected on the marshes' surface, but the reflection suddenly became disturbed. Ripples 
formed around an object in the water.
 
Something was coming out of the river. 
 
Déagol. His body rotten, a zombified shell of his former self. What were once brown 
eyes, unusual for the Stoor breed (blue eyes were their popular trademark), were now 
clouded-over white orbs. His skin had turned even paler then Sméagol's own, hair 
scraggly and falling out in clumps as he walked. The clothing he had worn on the day of 
the tragedy was tattered and worn. Dirt, soot, twigs, and leaves stuck in his hair, clothes, 
everywhere.
 
Sméagol’s mouth trembled, but he remained silent. The other hobbits had the same 
reaction, then slowly turned towards him. He turned to meet their gaze, mouth trying to 
work, but nothing came. 
 
“Smeeeegooollll…” Déagol’s voice wavered. “Who are your new friends? Why haven’t 
you introduced us...?”

Breaking into tears, Sméagol covered his face, except his eyes. He could not look away.
 
“Why, what’s wrong Sméagol? It’s time for your birthday party. They can come with us, 
they can alllll come with us, Smeeeeegoooollll…”

His voice wavered again, and he began to walk even closer.
 
“What’s wrong, Sméagol?” he repeated, voice changing into a deep, resonant and all-too-
familiar tone. Similar to Gollum's, almost. Déagol leaned over, then gripped his cousin’s 
chin, and Sméagol looked into the dead eyes of his murdered friend.
 
“Don’t you want to go fishing, again? It won’t be like last time, I promise!” And he 
smiled with blackened, sharpened teeth. 
 
"You're...not...real..." Sméagol said between clenched teeth, removing Déagol's hand. But 
he responded with a mere cock of his head, eyeing him strangely with glossed-over 
pupils.
 
"Whatever has come over you, my friend?" The last part was drawn out, spit with venom 
and rage, on purpose. Then with a sudden lurch, Déagol snapped forward, inches away 
from his face, when Sméagol started awake. 
 
His eyes caught a glimpse of the cave, but he swiftly closed them; he was still tired and 
desired sleep. Only bits and pieces remained from the nightmare. He was too sleepy to 
dwell on it now. It would be forgotten when he truly woke up. But he shivered, and held 
himself a bit closer. Sweet dreams returned, a small smile reforming on his face. Peace 
returned, but his toes and smile still twitched in his sleep.
 
 
He awoke some hours later to the muffled sound of pans clacking. This time, though, it 
was a relaxed and comfortable awaking, the horrible dream diminished and irrelevant. At 
least, he hoped it would stay that way. He trembled at the remaining bits that still clung to 
his memory, violently shoving them from his slowly reviving brain. Soon it disappeared, 
and continued with other, more pleasant thoughts.
 
He felt fantastic, smiling absently as he slowly writhed in his covers. The soft sound of 
the hobbits conversing only added to the atmosphere. It was only a little chilly, and it bit 
a little at his limbs. He simply wrapped himself up a tad better in his warm and comfy 
haphazard bed.
 
With a wistful sigh, he felt the warmth of the newly made fire. He watched the shapes of 
the two hobbits in the firelight; they sat at the opposite ends of the fire ring. Sam looked 
to be preparing a meal, attempting to sizzle something in a skillet. He was currently 
sitting back, bored. Apparently, he had nothing to throw into the pan. Frodo laughed a 
little and shook his head. Sam smirked back. “What’s so funny?”
 
“It’s just…well, ironic. We have tons of fish right here, but we can’t catch them. Just 
when we could use them the most, too.” Then he too sat back and gently watched the fire.
 
Sméagol felt refreshed, a new life upon him, and rolled over to watch the two. “What 
time of day is it?” he asked absently.

The two looked up, a bit surprised by the suddenness of his voice. Frodo looked outside 
of the cave. “About… two ‘o clock in the morning, I’d wager. We really should be 
asleep.” He then nudged Sam. “But, us hobbits get hungry.” He smiled back warmly at 
their patient.
 
With a quick flash of a smile, Sméagol then cocked his head in thought. “Do nice 
hobbitses have any water?” he asked, as kindly as he could muster. “Sure, there’s plenty 
coming from the stream.” And with that, Frodo stood up, grabbed the skin, and proceeded 
to collect some.
 
Frodo felt good all throughout; he was helping. He would never pass up the opportunity 
to do so. He walked up and handed the full water skin to his injured companion. As he 
squirted it into his mouth, Sméagol drank nearly all of it in one gulp. Proceeding to lick 
his teeth, he paused for a moment, then reached for his mouth.
 
“Is there something wrong with your mouth?” Frodo asked curiously, sitting down beside 
him. Sméagol seemed to inspect his mouth with his tongue more, then answered. “My 
teeth…one of them is missing… and some more are starting to grow back.”  He seemed 
totally shocked at the prospect of gaining teeth, when he was so used to losing them over 
the years.
 
“Here, let me see….” And Sméagol let him gently open his mouth as Frodo took a peek 
inside. His mouth was in visibly bad shape. Only around seven teeth remained, and those 
that still existed were pointy and degraded. It looked as though they had been forcibly 
sharpened.
 
“Sméagol, what did you do to your teeth?” Frodo asked incredulously, forgetting himself. 
Backing up a bit and closing his mouth, Sméagol looked deep into his master’s eyes.

“When Gollum had me, he changed my body. He sharpened our teeth with a stone; it 
made it easier to kill goblins.”
 
Then he sighed and looked down at his hands, inspecting his worn and tired fingers. 
“Our teeth would just… fall out. My mouth would be filled with blood for days, 
sometimes. There was nothing I could do, though…”
 
He drifted off, still staring at his hands. “There… was… nothing… I… could… do….” 
The words were drawn out as his gaze wandered into blank space. Tears began to drift 
down his face, a pang of pain resonating in Frodo’s heart. Something told him Sméagol 
meant more than just his teeth, too. Slowly, and with some timidness, he wrapped his 
arms around the lithe being.
 
Looking up to Sam, he noticed that he was watching them. He made no move to stop 
them. Frodo felt Sméagol clutch him suddenly, completely wrapping his arms around the 
other hobbit. burying his face deep in his master’s shirt, and the floodgates began to open.
 
Sméagol cried deeply, sobs reaching to high whines and wails. “We killed him!” he cried, 
over and over. Frodo’s mind and body quivered at his words, barely able to keep hold of 
Sméagol as he wept. “And there was nothing I could do…” His hand traced up and felt 
around the ring under the cloth, squeezed it tightly, then let go.
 
Frodo looked down into Sméagol’s eyes, his own beginning to glisten with tears. Gently, 
he pulled him closer into his chest. “There, now.” He spoke quietly. “Shhhhh, master is 
here.” Although he had to admit, he didn’t know what he could possibly say. Who had 
Sméagol killed, and why?
 
“Sméagol loves master…." Sméagol spoke in a low voice into his shirt. He almost cried 
himself into another short sleep, but feared the nightmare, so, instead, he looked up into 
the eyes of Frodo. “I’ll tell you about it…” he said, as the memory was the only one that 
was complete, and all too familiar.
 
Sam tiptoed over and sat close to his friend, ears ready and mind open.
 
“It all started on a pleasant, warm spring day…My birthday…”
 
And so they were told of the finding of the One Ring, and the corruption of Sméagol.
 
 
 
His tale ended. He had entered the Misty Mountains, and there he had dwelled for 
centuries. He told of his birthday morning, how he came to go fishing with his cousin, 
Déagol. Then the finding of the One Ring came into play, and it was as though a dark 
cloud settled over everyone in the cave. His descent into madness caused even Sam to 
cringe as Sméagol once again fell to tears, only to again be comforted by Frodo.
 
“Sméagol…” Frodo began. “I…I had no idea…” And he was at a loss for words. Sam’s 
jaw failed to work; he only shook his head, why was arguable. “Gandalf told me your life 
was a sad story. But I, I just didn’t know.” 
 
Sam looked up, and for the first time, he, too, was beginning to tear up, a single droplet 
rolling down his cheek. “I apologize, Sméagol. I… I had no idea what you’ve been 
through.” He then looked down at the cave floor, mind no doubt whirring in intense 
thought. "And, well, I guess I'm sorry for everything else, too. I judged you before I knew 
you. I should know better." 

Sméagol nodded, then swallowed in concentrated thought. "I'm sorry for biting you." 
Sam smirked, then nodded back. An understanding had been reached.
 
Frodo stared at his companion in his arms. Telling the story made him paranoid, eyes 
darting from one corner of the cave to another, but it did seem to help. The truth was out; 
no secrets appeared to be held in that thin interior. 
 
“Master forgives me?” Sméagol finally asked, after a long and cold silence. Frodo didn’t 
answer for several minutes, but then shook his head strongly. “No," he said, and 
Sméagol’s heart nearly stopped. “Because you didn’t do it.” And then he felt the Ring 
inside his shirt, and his eyes narrowed.
 
“None of this is your fault. Gollum did this, and he’s gone now, isn’t he?” he asked, and 
gazed back. Sméagol swallowed, then curtly nodded. “Never, ever, come back.”
 
With another hug, eyes moist, Frodo swallowed as well. Kissing him gently on the 
forehead, he smiled. “Sam…?” he asked, hoping for a good response from his friend.
 
“I’ll give him a chance," Sam responded. “If that ol' Gollum is gone, like you say, 
then…then I suppose….” Trailing off, he looked at the pale and scrawny being, a being 
who was slowly redeeming himself. He wasn’t lying; Sam could feel it in the air, he 
could see it in his eyes.
 
“Then…I suppose we can work this out. We can try.” 
 
Frodo nodded at his friend. Well said.
 
“Now," said Frodo, breaking the ice. “Let’s look at those teeth again.”
 
 
 
Bringing him closer to the firelight, Sam and Frodo began to look thoroughly into his 
mouth. Indeed, new molars and incisors were beginning to spring up through his gums. 
Some of the old ones had been knocked loose by the fall, and were beginning to rock 
back and forth and come out. Sam helped dislodge one by doing just that.
 
With a little bit of pain, it popped out of its unhealthy spot in Sméagol’s gums. Their 
patient closed his eyes hard as it was delicately extracted. Blood worked its way out of 
the cavity and into his mouth. When out, Sam held the tooth to the fire light to study it. It 
was filed to a point, but suspiciously had not a single cavity. It looked discolored and 
rotten, however. 
 
A little distraught by its appearance, Sam flung it into the fire in disgust. He checked the 
others, but that was all. Frodo brought over some water and handed it to him so that he 
might wash out his bloody mouth. Sméagol then spit out the blood, coughing slightly. 
“They feel better now…” he remarked.
 
Wiping some drool from his chin, Sméagol sat back on his haunches with the other two, a 
look of embarrassment in his eyes. Frodo smiled back. “Good! Just in time to eat, then!”
 
Sméagol perked up, and a happy light came to his eyes. “Eat! Sméagol is hungry!" And 
as he said that, he crawled on over and beside his master.

“Indeed, I would imagine," Frodo responded, staring openly at his exposed ribcage. 
Sméagol looked back at Sam to reply, and gave him his newly altered smile.

“Yes, Sméagol is always hungry...." He was still referring to himself in the third person. 
That particular habit, it seemed, hadn’t gone away.
 
“Always?” Sam repeated, a bit amazed.

Sméagol nodded in confirmation, smile fading just a bit. Then he looked back to Frodo. 
“Nice fishes?” 
 
Frodo looked past him to Sam, who sighed, then nodded. He had walked towards the 
fishing pool to see if he could grab a few, but they all scattered before he could even try, 
all making their way to the deep end where it was safe. He had hoped Sméagol would 
wake up soon and fish for them, and now he had the opportunity to ask. The frying pan 
had been sizzling hot water for hours now, and he was anxious to get some real food in 
his stomach.
 
“Yes, fish. But you need to catch them. Do you mind?”

Sméagol looked back to him in response. “Sméagol try, where is sweet, juicy fishes?” he 
asked in a rather excited tone. 
 
Sam pointed to the pool, and watched as Sméagol got up and slowly and awkwardly 
crawled into the said direction. Curious, both hobbits followed to watch the spectacle. 
But it was the fatter hobbit who seemed to pay special attention.
 
Sméagol sidled up to the edge of the pool, peering down into the clear yet deep body of 
water. His right hand raised, slowly, meticulously, and stayed elevated above the surface 
for several minutes. Then it became a blur as it dipped into the water, and he lurched 
forward up to his shoulder. He was careful to keep his head up and not ruin the recent 
bathing job, however. He was still partially wrapped in the blanket, his locks of hair still 
moist and drying.
 
Then he pulled back almost just as fast, and in his hand was a small trout. It squirmed in 
his grasp and tried desperately to escape. Sméagol was an expert at this, however, and 
carefully gripped tighter to prevent such a thing. Before either Frodo or Sam could 
compliment him, he took the fish and whacked it heavily upon the nearby rock. Both 
hobbits flinched from the brutality. but accepted the odd method of incapacitating their 
meal.
 
He looked about ready to bite into it, but instead handed it to the unwilling Sam standing 
next to him. “One fissssh,” he hissed, and he went back to his duty.
 
Sam was amazed that he was able to pull four more ‘juicy fish’ from the cavern pool 
before they became wise and retreated to the bottom. Sméagol sighed, hoping for enough 
for a satisfying dinner.
 
“I can help, I suppose…” Sam said, kneeling down beside him. Sméagol looked up in 
surprise, not having expected that in the least. His gaze returned to his prey.

“Nice hobbit know how to fish?” he asked kindly.
 
With a frown, Sam shook his head. “Can’t say I do, at least your way.”

Sméagol cocked his head to the side. “Kind Sméagol shows. Watch…” And he 
proceeded to try and catch a fish that strayed closer to the top. Watching closely, Sam 
took note on how he expertly timed the fish’s retreat to his grab. He, as always, caught 
the slimy animal and managed to kill it upon the rocks.
 
“Sam try, we’ll scare them," he said happily, and he walked to the opposite end, sticking 
his hand down deep and scattering them more towards the surface. Sam bit his lip and 
reached down deep into the water, deathly afraid of falling in, and he almost did. He 
forgot about his sleeve, and got it all wet. A fish was in his grasp, however, but it slipped 
out as he tried to haul it out of the water. He groaned in disappointment and anger.
 
Sméagol chuckled a bit. “Not so easy, is it?” he asked. “Try again!” And so Sam, 
discouraged but not a quitter, rolled up his sleeves and did just that. He missed, then 
again, and then finally got one.
 
With a look of slight apprehension, he took out a small pan fish from the water. “Kills 
it!” Sméagol cried urgently. “Or it’ll get away!” Taking Sméagol’s advice, albeit 
reluctantly, Sam dashed it on the ground and managed to get fish blood all over his 
hands, but the deed was done. He continued until twelve fish had been caught. The wiry 
being danced the same way he had when he gave the conies to Frodo, albeit more 
restrained and jerkily, careful of his injuries, and then sat before his fatter friend. “…Did 
it, did it! Smart hobbit, clever hobbit!”
 
Washing his hands off in the water, Sam felt a new appreciation for Sméagol. It wasn’t 
easy, and to imagine, he had to do that all day, every day of his life. He looked up, and 
Frodo smiled at him. “Why Sam, I think Sméagol just taught you how to fish!” And Sam 
had to smile back when he thought of it. Part of his fear of water had been nixed, and he 
didn’t even know it. Sméagol actually taught him something, gave him something, and 
didn’t ask for anything back.
 
Indeed, he had.
 
 
 
Sméagol was filled with a new light, the darkness of Gollum nearly gone. Being cared for 
was beginning to give a new purpose to his existence. But Gollum still lingered, and 
would continue to until the Ring was destroyed. The memory of Déagol still existed, and 
would never disappear. But at least now he accepted it. He knew it wasn’t entirely his 
fault. Master said so, and even Sam agreed. They were the ultimate authority, now that 
his previously domineering personality had gone into submission.
 
His weakened bones still ached, as they were still in the early stages of healing. Not being 
perfectly aligned didn’t help matters either. Also, the two hobbits were not the swiftest in 
cleaning the wounds. Bacteria got in, and several of the gouges and cuts were infected. 
Although not serious enough for alarm, it hurt when he moved, and did so sparingly. 
Wincing at brushing a cut on his leg, he sat down next to the fire. 
 
The fire no longer scared him, as it had no reason to. He knew full well it wasn’t the evil 
flame of Mordor, despite its resemblance to its red glowing light. He sat with his knees 
drawn up to his chest and arms around them, the blankets and towels swathed around him 
loosely. His dark brown hair, for one reason or another, loved the washing it had just 
received. He noticed, on a piece that hung over his eyes, that it formed a wave-like and 
loosened curl all the way down. 
 
He gently reached out and felt along the softness, and that was what surprised him; it felt 
soft for once. Usually when he felt the hair brush against his shoulders, he remembered 
its bristliness and hardness. Swimming around in the water didn’t help much.
 
To think, all it had taken was some soap. Sméagol stretched his flattened feet a bit, again 
marveling at how well he felt. But he was a tad cold, he noticed now, and shivered a bit, 
pulling the blanket a smidgeon tighter around him.
 
His wounds were still open, though, and just as Sam finished fishing, he pulled the 
effectively washed bandages from the water. Frodo sat down and began to rub out the 
blood stains, and applied a bit of soap to each, as he knew from experience that it seemed 
to stave off the wounds ‘getting bad’, or what we would know as infected.
 
Laying them on the rock to dry, Frodo yawned, then proceeded to help Sam carry some 
of the fish back to the fire. Setting them into a small pile, the two sat down beside the fire 
ring. They sat closer to Sméagol this time, one on each side. Sméagol watched as the 
fatter Sam-hobbit leaned unexpectedly close to him as he fiddled with the skillet a bit. 
His back faced him, clothes rubbing up against his pale and discolored skin.
 
“He would never have done that…before," Sméagol thought to himself. It comforted him 
greatly, knowing that the two were beginning to trust and respect him. Frodo sat to his 
left, and gently poked Sméagol to get his attention.
 
“I… know you like your fish raw, Sméagol,” he began, "but I really need you to eat it 
cooked, all right? It’s better for you…”
 
Frodo watched as Sméagol shook in revulsion. “I hates cooking…” he responded, 
shaking his head.

Sam shot him a slightly dirty look, but none too serious. “Now just why is that?” he 
asked, miffed, but also a bit curious.
 
Looking up to the sandy-haired companion, Sméagol searched for an appropriate answer. 
He realized now that he had been rather rude the last time he informed him. He smiled 
inwardly at the memory. 'Stupid fat hobbit', that was rather amusing.
 
He remembered when he was a child, one of his earliest memories. Fascinated by the 
cooking process, he had got close to a frying skillet his grandma was using. The handle 
was sticking out from the fire, his grandma facing the opposite direction. Watching the 
fish sizzle and pop, taking a long whiff. It looked so good, and he leaned in to grab the 
fishy, assuming it was good and ready to eat. 
 
But the result was not pretty. Grease burned his fingers and face horribly, and he cried 
out and fell back. It stung, the effected skin growing white and scarred. His grandmother 
freaked, getting down to her knees and asking if he was okay. Then she hit him hard 
before he could reply. She hated it when he did stupid, curious things like that. He did 
things like that all too often, unfortunately.
 
Crying, he was told to go to the bathroom and bandage himself. He would be punished, 
not receiving dinner that evening. Of course, being a hobbit, it wouldn’t be long before 
the next meal. Still, he went hungry, as he was so upset with himself, he didn’t feel he 
deserved anything to eat.
 
He still ate cooked things, but stayed well away from the process itself for many years. 
Sometimes he tried food raw, but found it not as satisfying as its seasoned counterpart. 
When he went into the Misty Mountains, he did try to cook at first, but found the 
materials too hard to come by. He instead ate his prey raw, and found no plant life deep 
underground.
 
Growing used to the taste, he had reveled in it, savoring the sweet and juicy tenderness 
that was the fish, bat, or occasional goblin. The idea of returning to what he had came to 
know as ‘spoiling’ revolted him if anything. He licked his teeth again, deciding.
 
“If master wants us to…” he sighed, and crouched with a bit of irritation. New terrors of 
the skillet spiting at him crowded his thoughts, but he held his ground. Frodo smiled; at 
least he would try.
 
Sam leaned back, appeared to think for a moment, and then reached around to grab a fish. 
Sméagol seemed to look in his direction, and Sam knew it had to be torture to see 
perfectly good food go to ‘waste’. Reaching to his other side, he grabbed a small knife 
perfect for just this occasion: a fish-fillet knife he was now incredibly glad he had 
brought. 
 
Frodo watched as Sam started by chopping the head off. Sméagol winced a bit; he’d 
never seen it done that way in years. Sam continued down the body, splitting it in half 
and removing the edible parts. Then he took the fillet and threw it into the skillet. It was 
obvious that this pleased Sam; this was where he thrived. Taking out a spatula, he moved 
the tender piece of fish flesh around. It sizzled in the grease and its own juices, and Sam 
added some spices that he had collected as Sméagol had been sleeping. This invoked a 
strange look from Sméagol, but he held back. ‘For Master…’ he thought to himself.
 
More fish, all that he could make fit, were piled onto the pan. As they were turned over 
and over, Frodo salivated for the taste of a real meal. It appealed to him more than 
lembas, which now burned him inside and out. 
 
“Add… those…” he heard Sméagol say from beside him. He was pointing to some plants 
that lay to Sam’s side. He had laid them out when deciding what to grab, but had never 
intended to use them.
 
“Those…?” Sam asked with surprise, a look of both shock and confusion in his eyes. 
“But… those won’t taste good with fish, though.” Frodo nearly broke out laughing when 
he realized Sméagol was giving Sam cooking advice now. A smile forming on his face, 
he looked back at the former Ring-bearer.
 
“I…I remember. Back in the long, long ago. Grandma would take those from beside the 
river. She cut them up, scraped them, then fried them with the fish. She said it was a 
family secret.”  Then he look suddenly saddened. “But it doesn't matter now…” 
 
Frodo realized what he was talking about. The Stoor clan had left the Gladden fields and 
intermarried with the families of Buckland, his ancestors. He had no idea if any of his 
close family had made the move, if any of his genes had been passed on. There was still 
so little they knew about him.
 
“Well…” said Sam with a sigh. “I suppose I can try it.” And with that, he did as Sméagol 
asked, cutting up the strange brown plant on the rocks, then scraping it off and grinding it 
with a stone. He sprinkled it onto the fish, worried that the taste would be ruined.
 
Frodo went and gathered the plates and eating utensils. He even got some for Sméagol, 
even though he knew he would most likely eat with his hands. Sam had even had the 
sense to bring napkins on such a trip. 
 
Holding out his plate, Frodo received the cooked fish filet. Caught by Sméagol, cooked 
by Sam, but in truth, they had helped one another. Sméagol timidly held out his plate, and 
was rewarded with the least cooked of the three fillets. He brought it close to him, 
studying it with great intensity.
 
Sam got himself one, sitting down and ready to eat. Both, however, were eager to see 
Sméagol’s reaction. Frodo watched with great intensity as he actually licked the fish, 
drawing the tongue back into his mouth and tasting the spices. He shook, the taste 
obviously overwhelming, face squashing up to show his surprise.
 
“Tastes just like it! I don’t know how I remember, but….” And he shook his head in 
confusion.

Frodo sidled up beside him, eager to assist. “Do you know how to use a knife and fork, 
Sméagol?” 
 
He gazed in his master’s direction. “Yes… but…." And he breathed loudly. “It has been a 
long time.”  
 
“Here, watch me.” And Frodo demonstrated by sticking his own juicy fish with a fork 
and cutting it cleanly with his knife. He shoved it into his mouth, marveling at its rich 
texture. The added ingredient from Sméagol’s advice gave the fillet an extra zing that 
rivaled any other. Frodo nodded at Sam, emphasizing that it was indeed delicious.
 
Finally, albeit timidly, Sam cut and took a bite, chewing slowly and carefully, as it was 
still hot. He was amazed at the amount of flavor the plant had brought out; his initial 
suspicions had been wrong.
 
Nodding back to Frodo, he smiled sheepishly. “Thanks for the advice, Sméagol. Your 
grandma knew what she was doing.” 
 
Sméagol smiled back broadly, showing every one of his pointy teeth. Then he turned 
happily back to his food, only to make a cross face. “Now, come on,” Frodo urged. “If 
you eat it raw, it will make you even sicker. Your stomach is very fragile right now.”
 
That seemed to convince Sméagol, and so he struggled a bit with the knife and fork. After 
tearing the fish up a considerable deal, he managed to get a piece in his mouth. Chewing 
swiftly as to not taste it, he downed it before it was ready, nearly choking. His next bit 
was slower, and he got a ounce of flavor in return. It dazzled his taste buds, shocking him 
out of the normal and bland fish that had become exciting to him only with time.
 
He ate three more pieces slowly, testing the grounds of this newfound territory. Frodo 
looked over to Sam again; they shared an amused and satisfied glance. Finally, Sméagol 
simply took the remaining half and stuck it into his mouth. After a few more chews, it 
was downed.
 
“Well?” Sam asked, hopeful. Sméagol cocked his head in return.

“Good.” And that was all he was willing to admit.
 
“Well, I think it’s great," Sam replied gruffly. “What about you, Mr. Frodo?”

Finishing his last bite, Frodo set the fork and plate down beside the skillet. “Excellent as 
always, Sam. Let’s get some more.”
 
And so the three ate the remaining fish. Sméagol ate more than all of them together. 
When they each got one, he had three. They ran out soon, and although Sméagol was still 
hungry, they maintained that he would have to wait until tomorrow. He received some 
cool and refreshing water, however.
 
Yawning openly, Frodo looked towards the healing Sméagol. “Ready to go back to bed?” 
he asked both the other hobbits. Sam put away his pots and agreed, stomach full and 
satisfied, still in disbelief of their patient’s sudden wolfing down of ‘hobbit food’. 
 
Sam smiled; anyone who would eat his food like that earned a certain level of respect 
from him. He wearily looked for a spot to sleep, laying down a soft blanket and retrieving 
the pillow Sméagol had been using. Then he watched as Frodo laid down his things next 
to his own. His thoughts drifted; if he was using both pillows, then where would their 
injured companion sleep?
 
Then Frodo bent down next to Sméagol and whispered something in his ear. Nervously, 
he crept on over with his master, giving Sam a strange look; he knew what was going on.
 
At first Sam felt like saying something about his master’s decision. And yet he knew he 
would never win in an argument, especially when Sméagol was involved as the reason. 
Besides, he had earned a certain level of trust from the creature. He understood that they 
had a limited supply of blankets and pillows, and going without was out of the question; 
it was chilly, and he might grow even sicker.
 
He watched as Sméagol slowly crawled past Frodo, looking nervous as all hell, looking 
from side to side, then moving towards Sam. Each step was like a barrier being crossed. 
Then he plopped down beside the fatter hobbit, back to him, a towel still wrapped snugly 
around his thin waist. His head lay on the edge of Frodo’s pillow, careful to leave enough 
room for him.
 
Catching his breath a bit, Samwise tried not to be uneasy. He calmed himself, knowing he 
had been even closer to him mere hours earlier. It seemed like years ago, and yet he could 
still taste him in his mouth, despite the flavorful fish. With a sigh, he relaxed, he was 
fighting a losing battle. Frodo stepped out, presumably to go to the bathroom, and 
returned moments later. There was a hissing as the fire was put out.
 
Frodo lay down next to Sméagol. The scene would have looked quite odd to the casual 
observer. Three odd friends who were bonded by a similar experience. So different, yet 
alike in more ways then they had thought. 
 
Spreading the blankets over themselves, they stretched them as long as possible to get 
themselves all covered. Their feet ended up being shortchanged, however. If you had 
been to look at the exposed feet, you would have noticed that Sméagol’s appeared to be 
about the same size as the others', and that small hairs were beginning to reemerge along 
the top.
 
Sam breathed in Sméagol's scent, smelling mostly soap now. His old smell lingered 
faintly, which reminded Sam of toiling in his garden at home. As he stared at the back of 
Sméagol's mostly bald head, he couldn’t help but notice new hairs starting out. He’d 
never seen that before. He got a few inches closer; was he really getting better, in that 
sense? That he was beginning to… to what?
 
He was a hobbit; it now seemed all too obvious to Sam. Sméagol had never come out and 
said it, only that his last name was ‘Stoor’. A few other references clued Sam in, like his 
referring to eating second breakfast, although it had never hit him like it did now. 
Sméagol was resembling a normal, healthy hobbit more and more as time wore on.
 
“Goodnight, hobbitses…”  was heard from beside him, and then a yawn.

This shocked even Sam, who took a few moments to respond. “Goodnight…” he said in a 
rather surprised tone.

“Goodnight Sam, Sméagol.” Frodo smiled at both his companions.

“’Night Mr. Frodo," Sam replied gruffly as he turned over, feeling the warmth of the 
former Gollum next to him. It was oddly comforting in the chilled night air.
 
 
They didn’t sleep long; actually, it would be more accurate to say that Frodo didn’t fall 
asleep. He was too eager, restless. He sighed, feeling the breath of Sméagol on his neck. 
 
Feeling much better, he lay back down on the soft blanket beneath him. He scrunched his 
feet up into the blanket, and still didn’t find himself sat