Duplicity by Prackspoor  

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Apocalpyse (I) - Sting

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Apocalypse

(Revelation)

 

 

IV. Sting

You have followed the two hobbitses ever since they came out of the nasty elf-wood and then down the big river and into the maze of the Emyn Muil. You have watched them stumbling around in circles for days on end, the dark circles under their eyes growing darker, their frustration evident in the hard set of their jaws.

Up until now you haven't been able to get close to them. They are both watchful and have been taking turns sleeping, hands on their nasty Elven swords. The sight of the blades is enough to make you duck behind a boulder even from a distance. There is no way to get close enough to kill them without being seen, so you have had to resort to other methods: you have watched them climb down the cliff shortly after sunset, and after the fat hobbit had swung himself over the edge, you have loosened the keen knot he had tied around the tree stump. The nasty elven rope has burned your hands and fingers and oh! - you have cursed them, the filthy hobbitses and the elves with their nasty daggers and ropes! But the fat hobbit knew how to tie his knots and when you had finally untied it, the hobbits had already reached the bottom of the cliff.

You have spat and wailed in anger over your foiled murder attempt, but only for a little while, because tonight you will have another chance. You can see it in the slump of their shoulders, and in the way they are dragging their feet over the gravel. They won't be staying awake tonight – too long have they wandered aimlessly. The Baggins-hobbit especially looks tired. You understand, of course, why. The closer you come to the Dark Land, the heavier the Precious must weigh. The Precious is so close, it almost feels like a weight around your own neck.

You bare your teeth, quickly discarding any notion of kinship that might be between you and the dirty Baggins-thief who is wearing your Precious around his filthy, skinny neck and who just now stumbles around a corner in the gorge beneath you and vanishes from sight. The fat hobbit follows, but not before throwing a glance back and you quickly flatten yourself against the stone, lest your elevated position expose you.

The hobbitses do not manage to leave the maze of the Emyn Muil before nightfall. It is almost amusing to watch them stumble, but when they finally set up camp under the sickly pale moon, you grow agitated. You feel a black, violent urge pushing you to climb down to the hobbits, and at the same time there is an equal amount of terror holding you back. The two feelings mix and clash and try to wrestle each other into submission. You restlessly slink to and fro on a rocky outcrop just above the hobbits, trying to keep your voice low.

“What are we going to do, my Precious? What are we going to do?”

“We climb down when they sleep and we will wring their dirty necks like wringing the head off a chicken,” the Precious says, pacing both of you back and forth like a wolf.

You halt. “But what if they wake up, my Precious? What if they wake up and pull out their dirty elf-daggers? What then, my Precious? If we can kills them, good. But what if they catch poor Sméagol?”

The Precious assumes a low, tense pose, like a cat poised to jump. “What do we want, Sméagol?”

“The Precious,” you say.

“Yes.” The Precious grins a toothy grin. “We want the Precious. It does not matter if they catch you or if you kill them. The wonderful thing about this plan is that it works either way.”

You frown. “What works, how works it, my Precious?”

The Precious does not answer immediately. It seems annoyed with you – it does not like it when you ask it too many questions. Questions make it angry, and you try to avoid making the Precious angry.

“See, Sméagol,” the Precious at last answers, its voice condescension masked with mock-patience, “this is how it is done.”

 

There was an army before the gates. Banners were flying in the wind, golden and black. Spears were glittering, and the sound of silver trumpets was in the air as the king commanded the advance of his entourage toward the gate.

The gates opened just a wide enough to allow a glimpse into the desolate red-and-black land beyond. There was a fiery mountain and a black tower, but between the tower and the gate there was nothing but barren wasteland as far as the eye could see.

Through the gap in the gates stepped a lone figure, and the king and his entourage halted their horses in surprise. The newcomer was out of place in every sense of the word: unarmed and unarmoured did he step before the waiting army. He was clothed in gold and white and upon his brow sat a thin golden circlet, marking him as a sovereign. Other than that he bore no royal insignia. He carried no banner, and he came alone.

The army waited, breath bated. Neither the king nor his men could believe that such radiance could come forth from the gates of the dark land. The lone figure walked over the vast expanse of the dusty plain between the gate and the host. He only came to a halt when the royal guard spurred their horses forward and blocked his way, putting themselves between him and their own king.

“Halt,” one of the Men said, but the spear in his hand was trembling, as was his voice. “Step no further!”

The white king just looked up at him along the length of the spear and finally pushed it aside with the back of his hand. “Have you left your manners on your ships when you landed at Umbar, marshal?” he asked sharply. “I seek to parley with your own king, and I will not be held back by one of his horsemen. Or does Ar-Pharazôn the Golden not adhere to the rules of war?”

At those words, the king of Men rode forth and dismounted from his steed, much to the dismay of his knights. “He does. And he wonders why you have come here.” The golden king made his way between the horses of his king's guard and stopped when he and the white king were face to face. “It seems you have forgotten your army. If we are to have war, would you face us alone?”

“If we were to have war, Ar-Pharazôn, then it would indeed have been right and justified to bring a host of my own,” the white king replied. “But you have heard me: I have not come to fight.”

“Then why have you come?” the golden king asked and furrowed his brow.

“I have been watching your approach to my gates for long days now,” the white king replied. “I have heard many stories about Ar-Pharazôn the Golden and how Men and Elves flee before his banner. I thought these Men and Elves cowards, and the stories mere tales told by those cowering fearfully around their hearth fires at night. But when I looked west from my tower, I saw ten thousand spears glittering in the morning light, ten thousand bows aimed at my walls, and twenty thousand swords drawn to strike down my soldiers. And I saw that the stories were not exaggerated, for an army like this has never before been seen on this world, and anyone fleeing before it must not be called craven, but wise.”

“If you seek to sway me with flattery, you have come to the wrong man,” the golden king said, but one could see in his face that despite his words he was secretly pleased.

“I seek neither to sway nor to flatter you, Ar-Pharazôn,” the white king said. “For it is the truth that no one can hope to stand against the power of Númenor. Only a fool would try it, and a fool I am not.”

“Save your breath,” the golden king said. “There is no amount of flattery that would make you my ally. We have war, and war must be resolved.”

“True,” the white king said, “but not all solutions must end in bloodshed.” And with those words, he went down on his knees in the dust before the golden king. A ripple went through the army behind them and cries of surprise could be heard.

The golden king looked astonished. “Are you offering me your surrender?”

“I do will not prolong this war unnecessarily when all it would achieve would be more deaths and delaying the inevitable,” the white king said and bowed his head. “I know when I am defeated.”

The golden king stepped forward, and drew the sword from his scabbard. “Why, this is a turn as unexpected as turns go. I came here expecting an army to await me and yet there is none. Instead Sauron the Deceiver is kneeling before me and I am presented with the opportunity to rid the world of one of its greatest scourges.” He lifted the sword until its blade rested against the side of the white king's neck. “And why shouldn't I?”

The blade pressed harder against the white king's neck, and a pearl of scarlet appeared on the edge of the sword. “So even gods do bleed,” the golden king said slowly, watching the drop of blood with rapt fascination as it drew a red trail down the silver blade. “Tell me, Deceiver, would you beg for your life?”

The white king raised his head and his eyes met those of the golden king. “If there was hope you would grant it to me.”

“Ah, so very humble,” the golden king said. “But words are words. They are easily spoken and no testament to the sincerity of your surrender.”

“I won't prevent you from testing my sincerity to your satisfaction, for as often and long as you like,” the white king said. “Being humbled is a small price for mercy.”

The golden king did not answer immediately. His gaze was fixed on the enemy kneeling before him, and on his face there was a shadow of greed and a flare of fascination. The blade was still at the white king's throat – and yet the king appeared spell-bound, unable to move either forward or back.

One of his captains rode forth. “My king,” the man said, “he speaks with a silver tongue, but if we would just open his mouth a bit further we would see that his tongue is forked. Do not let yourself be drawn under his spells. Kill him. Rid the world of this evil. He is too dangerous to let him live.”

“Do you suggest breaking the rules of war, Elendil?” the golden king asked sharply, turning his head to look at the rider. “We do not kill someone who surrendered unless he gives us a reason to.”

“This is Sauron the Deceiver! The reason he gave us is written in blood upon the face of the world!” the captain cried.

“Silence,” the golden king said. The entire army watched him as he stepped closer and reached out toward the white king. “You invited me to test the sincerity of your surrender,” the golden king said and smiled. “Let us see whether your desire for mercy is great enough to overcome your pride.” And with those words he reached out and ripped the circlet from the white king's head.

The white king did neither flinch nor did he rear up and raise his hand against the golden king. He endured the offence silently and put up no resistance as his golden hair came loose and fell down his shoulders, free from the restraints of his adornment.

The golden king looked down at the kneeling figure, a strange mesmerised look on his face. “I have taken your crown, Deceiver, and I proclaim you are no longer a king.”

“So be it,” the white figure said. “As I said earlier – losing a crown is a small price for a life, and a trade only a great man would offer to the defeated.”

“Indeed.” The golden king seemed to shake off his trance and smiled briefly. “But do not believe even for a moment that trust you. I am a merciful man, but I am no fool. Who is to say that you won't start warmongering again the moment I turn my back on you? You are dangerous, and I wish to have you where I can keep an eye on you. You shall live, but you shall do it in fetters and under my watchful eye.” He put the tip of his sword under the chin of the white king and tilted his head up. “The winner takes the spoils of war, and I will take you as a prisoner back to Númenor with me. This is the mercy I grant you.”

“My king –” the captain said, but was interrupted by a sharp gesture of the golden king.

“He offered his surrender and he gave up his crown,” the golden king said, raising his voice. “Let no one say that Ar-Pharazôn the Wise would choose murder and glory over lenience and mercy.”

The king tore his lingering gaze from the kneeling white figure, put his sword back in his scabbard, and turned around. “Put him in chains,” he ordered his men, and walked away.

 

You are still not sure about this. You don't think you understand what the Precious is trying to tell you with its memories of long-dead kings. Besides, you still fear the sting of the elf-daggers, but the Precious is not to be dissuaded. It urges you forward, down the craggy stone wall below which the hobbits have bundled themselves up in their cloaks. Your long fingers splay against the rough surface of the stone, and your nails bore themselves even into the tiniest cracks in the rocky surface. You are careful, and quiet. The hobbits are lying close to the foot of the cliff, both wrapped in their elven-cloaks. They are not moving, so you assume they are asleep. You move slowly, and you do not make the slightest of noises when at last your hands and feet touch the ground. Therefore you cannot understand in the least why the fat hobbit is suddenly on his feet and tackles you to the ground.

For a few brief moments you are petrified with surprise and fear, but then you remember just who is the hunter and who is the prey in this fight. You wriggle until you have your arms and legs free and then you wrap them around the fat hobbit in a death grip, pinning his arms to his sides, pulling tighter and tighter. The fat hobbit is strong, but you are stronger by far. Long dark years spent fighting and fishing and clawing your way to survival under the Misty Mountains have made you as worn and tough as old leather. If someone tries to bite you, it will cost him his teeth. The fat hobbit seems to realise this, because he is gasping for air when your fingers close around his throat. He throws himself forward and he catches you in the forehead with his hard, round head. Your brain is rattled in your skull, but your fingers only close tighter around the soft skin of his neck.

You would have won this fight – the fat hobbit is already turning blue in the face – but in your eagerness to take him out of the scuffle you have stupidly forgotten about the second hobbit. You are reminded of your carelessness when something suddenly pulls you back by the lank strings of your hair and you feel the tip of a blade at the skin of your exposed throat.

“Let go, Gollum,” the Baggins-hobbit says. When your gaze wanders down to the blade at your throat, he continues, “This is Sting. You know it, don't you? You have seen it before, a long time ago. Let go, or you'll feel it this time. I'll cut your throat.”

You go stock-still, even your breathing subsides. You have caught a look of a golden chain around the Baggins-hobbit's neck. There is the Precious. So close, so close – and around the neck of a filthy little thief. The idea flashes in your mind to throw yourself forward and attack, the sword at your throat notwithstanding, because death suddenly seems less important than holding the Precious in your hands once again – but the Precious itself quickly nips the idea in the bud.

Sméagol!, it hisses in your head. Have you understood nothing of what I have shown you? Surrender, you fool!

No, you have not and you still do not understand what the Precious is after, but the haze clouding your mind lifts for a moment and you realise that surrendering is the only way to stay alive. You collapse into a miserable heap, boneless and beaten. You curl up on the floor, whimpering like a wounded animal, despising yourself for doing so even while you hope that your miserable display might make them pity you enough to spare you.

“Don't hurt us! Don't let them hurt us, Precious!” you beg.

No one is going to hurt you. Everything is going according to plan, the Precious says. It sounds annoyed. You feel you should better not anger it any further. The Precious has been very irritable ever since you have lost it. You guess it would be more prudent to turn towards someone who is more likely to listen to you and be merciful.

The fat hobbit stumbles to his feet and glares daggers at you. You ignore him and fix your gaze on the Baggins-hobbit instead. He has the sword and he has the Precious. He's the important one. You pull yourself forward by your arms and grab the hem of the Baggins-hobbit's breeches. “They won't hurt us, will they, nice little hobbitses? We didn't mean no harm, but they jump on us like cats on a poor mouse – they did, Precious.” And because you feel particularly resentful at the Precious and how it is treating you right now, you add, “And we're so lonely, gollum. We'll be nice to them, very nice, if they'll be nice to us, won't we? Yes, yesss.”

The Baggins-hobbit steps back, wrenching the hem of his breeches out of your hands. You give a pitiful whimper and hunch forward.

But who speaks next is not the Baggins, but the fat one. “What are we going to do about him?” he asked. “I say we tie him up, so he can't come sneaking after us no more.”

“But that would kill us, kill ussss,” you wail. “Cruel little hobbitses, tie us up in the cold hard lands and leave us, gollum.” You sob, and even you yourself are disgusted by your display.

Undignified, but effective, the Precious says. Not everyone can keep his dignity while on his knees. Go on.

“They can't leave us, can't!” you cry.

The Baggins-hobbit is silent for a while, pondering the situation. “No,” he says at last. “If we kill him, we must kill him outright. But we can't do that, not as things are. It would not be right.”

Your sobs stop abruptly.

“Not right, Mister Frodo?” the fat hobbit says incredulously. “He tried to strangle us in our sleep, and he'll do it again if we do so much as leave him out of our sight for a moment.”

“I know,” the Baggins-hobbit says, but then falls silent, his pensive, heavy gaze resting on you. “He is a miserable, mean creature, and I do not doubt that he meant to harm us,” he says. “I never saw why Bilbo let Gollum live after their game of riddles, but I think I understand him a bit better now. For now that I see Gollum, I pity him.”

You lift your head just in time to see the face of the fat hobbit darken. You don't heed him, though, and throw yourself at the Baggins-hobbit. “Yess, we are pitiful, miserable, very miserable, gollum!” You grab his waistcoat, unfazed by the way the hobbit steps back and tries to hold you at bay with his nasty sword. “Hobbits won't kill us, nice hobbits!”

“No, we won't,” said the Baggins-hobbit. “But we won't let you go, either. You're wicked and untrustworthy, Gollum. You will have to come with us, while we keep an eye on you. And you must help us, if you can. One good turn deserves another.”

“Yes, yes indeed,” you reply eagerly and sit up straighter. “Nice hobbits! We will come with them, find them safe paths in the dark – yes, we will. And where are they going in these cold hard lands, we wonders?”

“Yes, we wonders,” the Precious repeats aloud in a hiss. There is something dark rising up in the back of your head and pressing to the front, black and ominous like an oncoming storm.

The Baggins-hobbit looks straight at you, and you cannot hold his gaze after a few moments. “You know that, or you guess well enough, Sméagol,” he says. “We are going to Mordor, of course. And you know the way there, I believe.”

The torrent of rage and fear that is unleashed at the back of your mind at those words is unlike anything you have ever experienced before. It is like a storm, like wave: drowning continents, uprooting mountains, and sweeping away everything else and wiping your thoughts blank.

For the fraction of a moment, your vision goes red and is rimmed with fire.

We will kill them. Yes, we will. Kill them both, rip their fingernails out one by one, break their bones, and tear out their throats.

You have no way of telling whether it is you or the Precious thinking this. You just sit there, staring at nothing and suppressing the overwhelming urge to jump at the hobbits and rip their throats out with your teeth. Slowly, the red fades from your vision and you are both able to think clearly again. This time, the Precious doesn't need to tell you what to say.

“Yes,” you say slowly. “Yes, we knows the way. We can takes them there – to Mordor. But hobbits shouldn't go, nice hobbits. Ashes, ashes, and dust, that's all there is. Pits and Orcs, thousands of Orcses. Nice hobbits mustn't go there, no.”

The Baggins-hobbit regards you with a strange gaze. “So you have been there,” he says. “And you are being drawn back there, aren't you?”

“Yess, yess,” you hiss.

“No!” the Precious shrieks aloud, startling both you and the Baggins.

You cower, the scream ringing in your head. “Once by accident it was, wasn't it, Precious?” you amend, fearful.

“Yes, by accident,” it replies firmly. “But we won't go back.”

The presence of the Precious inflates like a roaring storm-cloud in your head once more, and you panic, blinded by terror. Neither of you expects the violence with which you shove back the Precious and to the back of your mind.

“Leave me alone!” you sob. “You hurt me! I – we – I don't want to come back. I can't find it. I am tired. I – we, I can't find it. Nowhere. They're always awake. I can't find it.” You rear up, shaking your fist towards the East. “We won't! Not for you!” The words take up all the strength you have and you collapse to the ground, whimpering. “Don't look at us. Go away! Go to sleep!”

There is silence for a while, and then the Baggins-hobbit speaks again. “He will not go away or go to sleep at your command, Sméagol,” he says. “But if you really wish to be free of him again, then you must help me. Find us a path towards him.”

You uncurl from the ground and squint up at the hobbit with one eye. “He's over there,” you say and a mad cackle works its way up your throat. “Always there. Orcs will take you all the way there, it's easy to find them east of the River.”

You laugh some more and the Precious takes the opportunity to take over the conversation on your behalf. “Don't ask Sméagol,” it says. “Poor, poor Sméagol, he went away long ago.”

“He went away?” the Baggins asks.

“They took his Precious, and he's lost now,” the Precious says.

“Perhaps we'll find him again, if you come with us,” the hobbit offers.

You look up and find the Baggins looking at you very strangely, but not in a hostile manner. He extends his hand to you. You perk up at this, suddenly hopeful, as if a cloud had been pulled away from the sky and rays of sunlight were shining into the recesses of your mind that fell into darkness a long time ago.

But the reply of the Precious shatters hope and sunbeams alike: “No, no, never,” it says and snatches your hand back. “He's lost his Precious. He is lost.”

The Baggins hobbit regards you for a while. “Get up,” he orders at last, but his voice isn't commanding. He sounds sad. “Come, Sméagol,” he says, “lead the way.”

You don't put up a fight and slink after them, your head full of shattered hopes and sorrow, fear and anger, so much anger at the Precious.

The Precious feels it, of course, but its echo is merely smug, cruel amusement.

Don't resent me for telling the truth, Sméagol, it says. You can fight it, you can deny it, you can thrash and scream and cry, but it changes nothing about that the fact that I am and will always be right.

You make no answer.

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Chapter End Notes

Fact from the writing lab:
The chapter obviously draws heavily on the original sources provided by Tolkien, especially the chapter "The Taming of Sméagol" from The Two Towers.
What might be less obvious is that almost all of the dialogue between Frodo, Sam and Sméagol used here is also in the original books nearly verbatim. I initially read it to brush up on the original dialogue and use it as an inspiration to fit in the backstory of Sauron I had in mind. But then I discovered that I did not need to change anything save for switching the order of sentences here and there. The portrayal of Sméagol's split personality, the creeping horror of the growing influence of the Ring on Sméagol's character, the very strong, horrifying hints that Sauron is already there within the group and that he is speaking both to Sméagol and the hobbits - all those things were already in the books.
In fact, the entire truckload of fan conjectures concerning the Sméagol-Gollum-Sauron-Ring dynamic is already there right in the source material. It left me a) completely dumbfounded and b) once again in awe of what Tolkien managed to squeeze in between the lines of his story.
"The Taming of Sméagol" is incredibly written. I can only recommend that anyone who's interested in the Sméagol-Ring-Sauron dynamics read it.