Title: The Kindest
Author: Lyle (Sstitches69@aol.com)
Rating: NC-17, not for graphic sex, but for violence and some vaguely icky 
concepts.
Notes/Disclaimers: I wish I taken some bizarre painkiller or something I 
could blame this story on. It’s a strange little thing, one that would make 
Tolkien roll over and try to undo the nails to get out of his grave and hunt 
me down. I own nothing but my mind (my favorite toy).
Warning: Necrophilia-ish (kiss-kiss). No happy ending. Hurt/no comfort.
Synopsis: Sméagol’s point of view on how he got the Ring.
Pairing: Sméagol/Déagol
Spoilers: Nah.
 
        Yet each man kills the thing he loves
        By each let this be heard,
        Some do it with a bitter look,
        Some with a flattering word,
        The coward does it with a kiss,
        The brave man with a sword!

        – Oscar Wilde

The river gives us many things, yes, it does. I watches it sing by---it 
scrapes against the rocks and makes them smooth for us to finger. We collects 
the soft round stones, hides them in pockets. Today is a perfect day for us 
to poke out the broken shells, stones, the scraps of things. We weren’t 
listening until we heard a splash, and now we follows it and finds you 
crawling out of the river, shaking mud off your closed hands.

What is in your handses, we wonders? Some pretty foundling brought by the 
river, perhaps. No smell of fish, no raw sweet scent tickles our nose. A 
stone, then, my love? To turn and admire in your handses. You opens your fist 
and we watches. Shining bright and beautiful: a ring. Ai, we wants.

I creep up behind you, looking over your shoulder. “Give us that, Déagol, my 
love.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s my birthday, my love, and I wants it.” Our ears are singing, 
ringing, love. We feels nothing but the wanting---it eats our mind and leaves 
the ringing empty ears. Shining gold. Anything, we would do, anything. We 
wants. It pulls at us, yes, we feels its yanking allure.

“I don’t care. I have given you a present already, more than I could afford. 
I found this, and I’m going to keep it.”

No. No. No. No. We wants... “Oh, are you indeed, my love.” 

I feel my fingers circling around your neck, my love, and it’s a perfect fit. 
Your eyes dart back and forth like trapped fish as you choke. Reeds shiver 
around us, lean away from us two as we struggle. You don’t want to give up, 
do you; grip me tightly and thrash about. Forced us to squeeze you, you did. 
We bends our legs around yours and watch as you cough up red spray, our 
elbows trapping your arms. Not flail, silly, it does no good. We has the 
throat in our long fingers---firmly.

The body shudders and falls, head sagging like an old blossom. We watches it 
almost thoughtfully as it slumps to the ground. Limp handses give up the 
ring---it shines as we turns it over in our hands, fisting it. My love, you 
are dead. You falls like the fishes to the river bank and flops once, then 
still. We strokes our ring for comfort. Does it know we strangled you to hold 
it?

I purse my lips as if preparing to speak, but say nothing, precious. Instead, 
I lean to kiss your brow, in apology. So sorry, love. I promise. Would you 
understand? It yanked us to it, and it took hold of our mind, wicked ring. 
Didn’t mean to, surely, my love. All we ever wanted was your acceptance, 
before. Sorry. So sorry. Would you forgive? Oh, it hurts us, love; so sorry.

I lean down beside you and it hurts my eyes. Eyeses go weak for a moment, 
love, as we watches your face. It stares, frozen, like all it sees is nasty 
whiteness shining at it. Empty, love, and its mouth still looks scared, bent 
into that scared look. We wipes the slimy weeds from your hair, straightens 
your head, cradles it in our hands. Shut our eyes and bury our face into your 
neck. So sorry.

Not air on my head from your lips; it’s only coming from the sky, blowing 
down onto my neck, mocking me with its kind stroking hands. Does it know we 
strangled to hold the bright shining trinket? Not beating on my skin from 
your chest; it’s only coming from the lapping river, touching at my legs, 
pulling us to it. Does it know?

When we looks again, we sees the bruises that wreathe your neck. Red flecks 
on your lips, nasty cold bits of color. Will you smile for us? In death, you 
grimace. You used to be always smiling, my love. There. I won’t look. I can 
close my eyes as I kisses you. Your lips are still soft and pliant; they 
curls between our fingers and they mushes inward when we sits our mouth on 
them. So relaxed and quiet, my love, and breathing so softly we can’t even 
feel it on our cheeks. Not jolt away, you won’t, no, you doesn’t want to. 
Your head lolls in our hands, so eager and willing.

You aren’t supposed to keep your eyes open while kissing, Déagol; it’s 
impolite to leave them staring like that, soullessly into mine. Soft and 
smooth and wet like river-tossed stones; they look as dead as the stones, 
too, but we won’t think about that. We will just kiss you back. After all, 
your lips aren’t cold yet. Why should I find shame in this? It doesn’t 
belong. All that belongs is you. We is sorry, you know, but it’s over. And 
now I won’t think about it. The handses aren’t strangling now, my love: they 
strokes so gently. A pulse beats in my chest and I can pretend it is yours, 
for the moment.

The river jars you against us suddenly, and you feel so alive, shivering 
close to us, pulling us closer. Waters shift around us, so cold and slow, 
fervently stroking around legses. Closing our eyes to smell its heady 
scents---airy, full of dead blossoms and raw wet soil, but fresh and clean. 
It murmurs like a sleepwalker, turning hanging grasses over lazily. Its 
listless eddies curl around your toes and pull. They try to take you away 
from me, tricksy waves. We saw them carry dead flowers, their old blossoms 
reeking, fallen into the water and twitching. No, it can’t have you, my love. 
Not yet.

You feels cool against my fingers, love, becoming cold like the river. You 
looks at the sky, eyes blank, eyelashes nodding in the wind. I can’t pretend 
now, no, not any more. I, we, I don’t want to bury you -- leave you -- no, 
not now. Ach! You are as lifeless as the stones scattered on the river bank. 
Yet you watch us. I shivers and hides my face.

I rub the water out of your eyes and kiss them closed. I’ll fill your pockets 
with stones as soft and smooth as your eyes, weigh you down, watch the river 
drag you down. Then I’ll kick the sand up around you until it settles and 
covers you, sifting down over your eyelids. The perfect burial? We don’t 
know. But it suits us.

Or perhaps I’ll send you floating on the water-logged boat---down river into 
the thorns. They hang over the river and hide its flow from all eyes. Water 
will leak into the little hole our sharp rock makes -- scrapes -- through the 
bottom. By the time you gets to the middle of the tunnel, your little 
punctured boat will have filled with water and will send you sinking to the 
bottom, reeds and muck swirling up to cover your body, murmuring idly to 
themselves. You can pretend they play you a death lullaby, love, a song to 
rest you. It lingers forever, my love.

Now is the time, I thinks, before you gets cold and all dead, unreal when I 
hug you to my chest. No, no, not a lump of nothing against our chest. I must 
send you to the river.

I ease you into the water, set a kiss on your neck---goodbye. The boat sends 
you down the river to your end, the pretty pebbles winking, just the color of 
your eyes, as shiny as the ring in our pocket. I hope it was worth it. The 
bank smells musky, dry, strange. I watches the river steal your body. And as 
we turns to walk away, the wind runs past us to catch up with you down the 
river. I loves you, still. We will remember you when we touches this ring.

FINIS