Duplicity by Prackspoor  

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Apocalypse (II) - Born to Crawl

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V. Born to Crawl
 

Travelling with the hobbits is aggravating. They are tired and slow, and yet they are relentless: they make you wander under the cruel yellow eye in the sky at day, and under the pale night-eye when it's dark. You beg them to hide and wait until nice clouds obscure the hateful eyes, but they ignore you. The fat one is especially nasty: he keeps his eyes on you at all times, and when you stop to plead with them he gives the nasty elven-rope around your neck a yank and drags you along.

“Poor Sméagol, why are they so cruel to usss, it hurts, it hurts, gollum, gollum!”

“It wouldn't hurt if you just ran along,” the fat one snaps. “Come!”

You resist the urge to obey the command – running, in the sense of charging at the fat hobbit and biting his face off and wringing his neck.

Patience, the Precious says.

“We don't wants, we don't wants!” you cry and claw at the rope around your neck. Oh, how it burns!

This is not a fight you can win. Stay low to the ground until an opportunity presents itself. Your time to rise will come.

You don't answer. The words of the Precious are clever and true, but cold and they bring poor Sméagol no comfort, no comfort at all. You are in pain, you are hurt, you are alone. You hate the eye in the sky, you hate the hobbitses, and you even hate the Precious. You are almost sure the Precious is aware of it, but all you get in return is mild, contemptuous amusement before the Precious retreats further into the darkness of your mind to occupy itself elsewhere, leaving you alone with your pain.

You don't want to talk to the Precious, you fear it, you hate it – but there is no one else to turn to, no one else who would listen to you, so you find yourself returning to it, listening to it again and again, eager like a kicked dog who is happily slavering over a rotten bone he's been thrown.

*

After a few gruelling days you win a little victory, at least. The elven-rope has been driving you mad with the pain it is causing you – first an itch, then an unpleasant chafing, and then a vicious burning that has long since spread from your neck and into the most remote parts of your body. Your brain boils in your head, your neck is aflame, and every time you set down your fingers or toes on the ground it feels like stepping straight onto a pin cushion. Obviously your whining and crying has become too loud and too annoying for the hobbits, because suddenly the Baggins-hobbit turns around and comes to stand in front of you.

“What's the matter with you?” he asks. “You would try to run away and therefore you must be tied; but we don't wish to hurt you.”

You tug and tear at the rope, hissing when it burns your fingers. “It hurts us, it hurts!” you cry. “It bites! Nasty elves twisted it! Hobbits are cruel to us, that's why we tries to escape – they visits Elves and they have their ropes, nasty ropes. Take it off, it hurts uss! We won't run away!”

“I would take it off,” the Baggins says, “but I'm afraid there is no promise that you can make that I could trust.”

You gawk up at him and blink slowly, not quite comprehending what is almost being offered to you, and wondering whether the hobbit truly means it. When you realise that the Baggins is serious, you immediately throw yourself to the ground, grovelling at his feet like a dog. “We can promise! We promise anything! We do anything they asks us! We won't run off, good Sméagol, we will do anything the hobbits say, even the nasty fat one.” You throw a glower at the second hobbit and find it returned to you with equal disdain. “But let us go, take the rope off us, nasty rope, it burnss uss.” You thrash around on the ground, your fingers tangling in the rope. “We swear to do what he wantss. It hurts uss!”

“Swear?” the Baggins asks.

You still, only now realising just what it is you've proposed. Swearing oaths is a dangerous thing – you distantly recall this lesson from the old folk tales that your grandmother used to tell you when you were little.

Then you – and yet not you –

Someone recalls something else, something far darker, far more ancient, far more doom-laden linked to making a pledge upon your own name or nature. Something inside you recoils from the idea of swearing an oath, but another, more familiar part of you only knows that the elf-rope hurts, hurts, hurts, and if this is what it takes to get the hobbit to take it off, then so be it.

You roll onto all fours and crawl up to the Baggins. “Yess, yess. We swears.”

No, we won't, the Precious suddenly cuts in.

For once, you ignore it. You want to get rid of the rope, even if it means swearing an oath – and even if the Precious refuses to participate, it is enough if one of you makes the promise. It’s not as if the hobbits will be any the wiser, after all. “Sméagol will swear on the Precious,” you say, feeling very clever and content with yourself.

Fine. Do as you wish, the Precious growls. Get yourself tied up in oaths and promises, but I won't have any part in it.

Then don't, you think stroppily.

The Precious retreats, a glowering presence at the back of your mind.

“On the Precious? Would you commit your promise to that, Sméagol?” the Baggins asks. “It will hold you. But it is more treacherous than you are, and it may twist your words. Beware!”

In the ensuing pause the Precious is ominously silent.

“I would not have you swear on it,” the Baggins-hobbit says slowly. “Swear by it, if you will.”

“I will, I will. Good Sméagol!” you say quickly, not caring in the least about the change of one little word, and paw at his knees.

“Down!” the Baggins says. “Down. Speak your promise.”

You crouch down, your forehead nearly touching the ground. “We promises – I promise to serve the master of the Precious!” you say exuberantly, and you ignore the uninterpretable snort of the Precious at the back of your head. “Good master, good Sméagol!”

The Baggins-hobbit looks doubtful, but the promise binds him as much as it binds you, and he kneels down and takes off the rope. You do not move until he has safely looped it around his hand and handed it to his fat companion to stow it away. And then – relief, the glorious feeling of painlessness after hurting for a long time. The permanent backdrop of agony which you have gotten used to suddenly falls away and you become aware of how easy breathing and moving is without being in constant pain. You give a hoot of joy and pleasure and bound past the two hobbits, even though the fat one shouts after you to come back.

*

Eventually, you return. But however much this proves your goodwill in your own opinion, you still have an enemy.

While the Baggins-hobbit seems to have accepted you for the time being, the fat hobbit is still not convinced of your honesty. He is suspicious and always keeps his eyes on you, no matter how hard you try to be good. Whenever you lag behind, he nudges you on. Whenever you go too far, he calls you back. He is like a shepherd dog, and his master is the lone sheep he is guarding. He is always circling around him, trying to keep between you and him, and it aggravates you.

You try to be friendly at first, but it fails. The fat hobbit ignores you at best, and at worst he shoves you away and calls you names. He calls you “Slinker” and “Stinker” - with no regard for whether you can overhear him or not.

The last word especially rankles you. It takes you some time to figure out why – you have been called many names, often by goblins, and none bothered you overly much, especially if you ripped out their throats shortly after – but then you realise that most of it is not your own anger. The Precious has withdrawn into the furthest recesses of your mind, most likely still angry at you, and it speaks rarely these days. You don't mind that, but after a few days, the constant pressure against your brain gets maddening, like an itch you cannot reach to scratch. You start asking the Precious tentative questions in an attempt to understand, but it shuts you down brutally each time, leaving you with a headache lasting for hours. Once, though, something happens that you are sure the Precious didn't intend.

One moment you're perched next to a stream looking for fish to pull out of the water, when the fat hobbit turns around to call you (“Stinker, keep up!”) and the next –

– a ruined mountainous landscape with shattered cliffs and jagged ridges stretched from horizon to horizon. The world was vast, ruined, and empty under a steel-blue sky. Hot vapours and fumes wafted up in plumes from cracks torn into the face of the scorched earth. Mountain slopes, once green and blooming, were now grey and destroyed by avalanches of scree and ashes. Some mountains looked like they had their peaks ripped off by giant beasts.

A beaten warrior clad in shattered pieces of armour and a torn cloak climbed the last slope and brutal, glaring sunlight hit him in the face. The glare was only partially obscured by the winged figure standing on the mountain top: a shadow surrounded by the searing white halo of the sun, its contours rippling like flames, a great scythe with a shaft of ivory in its hands.

The warrior clambered over the last boulder onto the little plateau, limped a few steps toward the shining figure, and went down on his knees.

“Herald,” he said, bowing his head. A sharp, icy wind was cutting his face and tearing at his cloak.

“Stinker. Even here under the open sky you taint the air with the reek of the abyss."

 "Why, brother, you hurt my feelings. Is that how you greet long-lost kin?"

 The herald's mouth curled, and a shadow of either pain or revulsion passed over his face, but when he spoke his voice was firm and grim. "You have no right to appeal to the mercy of kinship, Gorthaur. Morgoth's darkness still clings to you, and your very presence is a stain on the stone below your hands and feet.” The herald's tone carried disgust more than anger, and the warrior had to fight his temper down to keep calm.

“I did not come here to exchange insults, fowl,” he replied.

“Why then?” The herald stepped forward, a magnificent figure in sky-blue, white, and bronze.

“Surrender.”

“Again?” the herald asked.

“I seem to have a talent for choosing the losing side,” the warrior said flatly.

“Clearly. And?”

“I want to live.” The warrior raised his head.

“That pardon is not mine to grant, and you know it.” The herald set his scythe on the ground.

“Then tell your lords about it.”

“I am a herald, not an errand boy, Sauron. I bear the messages of my kings and queens, but I am not here to carry to them every apology a traitor spits at my feet with a forked tongue. If you want to ask for mercy, you will have to come to them, kneel before them, and show true remorse.”

“I will not kneel before the Thrones of Wind and Stars, Eönwë.”

“Strange. You never seemed to have an issue with crawling in the dirt when it served to save your own hide. What is worse about kneeling before the Thrones than kneeling before me?”

“You know the implications this would carry as well as I do,” the warrior replied. “I will not go back into the West. You and I both know that I would never return from there.”

“Not if you truly repent,” the herald said, and stepped forward, his voice suddenly low and urgent. “There is still a chance for you. Come with me, kneel before the Great Powers, and show them that you are serious about revoking your alliance to Evil. You will receive a fair trial.”

The warrior laughed: a raw, humourless sound. “A fair trial? Like the one you granted Morgoth you mean?” he asked. “No, thank you! I am neither quite desperate nor foolish enough to hand myself over to your masters.”

“It is the only option you have left.”

“Then I might as well have no option at all left to me,” the warrior said. He slowly got to his feet, bracing himself heavily against his knees. “I would rather die on my feet here and now than spend eternity on my knees in the Blessed Lands.”

“Then don't go,” the herald said, and though his face showed contempt, his voice was full of disappointment and sorrow. “But in this case any right you might have had to mercy is forfeit. Go and run, just like you have always done! It would have been too much to expect you to turn around and take responsibility for your crimes. But one day even you will see that you can outrun your fate no more than you can outrun your own shadow, just as your nature will always catch up with you, foul and craven and treacherous –

 

Enough, the Precious snarls and you are yanked back thousands of years and hundreds of miles into the present. The abrupt transition leaves you nauseous. Your head is spinning. You have already forgotten most of what you have seen, but the name “Stinker” remains and the insult it carries for both of you.

“We both hates the fat one,” you say.

Evidently.

“We should get rid of him,” you suggest.

Why, Sméagol, the Precious says, you disappoint me. Where is the fun in a bid for power when you have no one worthy to oppose you?

You scrunch up your forehead while you scamper over the rocky shore after the hobbits. “This makess it harder for uss.”

Hardly. We will dispose of him in due time. In the meantime, all Samwise Gamgee does is make it more interesting for us. And we could use him.

“Use it how, Precious?” you ask.

I infer from your question that you have never experienced the beauty of a fortress being destroyed from the inside by its own inhabitants.

“No, Precious. We haven't ever seen no fortress, save for …” You shudder and fall silent.

Of course you have. Think metaphorically. A tower is a fortress, but so is trust and love – and just like real fortresses they have weak points which can be used to tear them down. Conquest is all well and good, but there is nothing quite like the intricacy of a web of lies and deceit, and in the end, when all the strings run together in your hands and just a little yank suffices to make everything come toppling down… Tell me, Sméagol, what is more fascinating than domination without violence, destruction without force, power without coercion?

“Fresh fish wriggling in my fingers,” you say, “wriggling and squirming, when it can't escape.”

That is it, exactly. Sinister satisfaction pulses through your mind. You will have the hobbit writhing in your grip before the end – but he'll step into the trap without even knowing it is there. Does that not appeal to you?

You cannot help yourself – you grin. “Nice. Sounds nice, my Preciouss, yess.”

The presence of the Precious coils up in your head like a contented snake. Good.

*

That night you dream. It is not one of your dreams; you notice this as soon as you fall asleep and the torrent of past millennia, of faces long dead, of sundered lands and sunken empires rushes past you.

There was a palace, high above a city. It was an airy, ethereal edifice of column halls, walkways and galleries. There was an upward direction in the walls, the columns, the spires: pillars rose to support vaulted ceilings fifty feet above, frescoes and paintings showed men and women reaching up, firing arrows, climbing, flying – there was an ever-present striving for higher, more, skyward, which permeated the entire architecture.

In the palace, there was a hall, which sat atop the mountain on whose slopes the city was built. No walls nor windows were needed in the hall, for this far south the air was warm all year round. A wide gallery with marble banisters ran down both lengths of the hall. Thin veils were hung between the pillars surrounding the hall, and they were dancing in the soft breeze, which carried with it the scent of the sea. The evening sun divided the columned hall in alternating stripes of gold-and-pink light and deep blue shadows.

One of those stripes of shadows belonged to a man standing between the pillars, his legs planted shoulder-wide, and his arms crossed. It was a warrior's stance, but atop his brow rested the crown of a king.

“Get rid of him,” the woman said. “I don't want him here. He's a snake, and he is dangerous.”

“You cannot order me to do anything, Zimraphel.” The king turned around, and spread his arms. “Besides, have I not brought him here humbled and shackled and without a crown?”

“Shackles will not keep a cobra from spitting venom, nor does taking his crown make him any less of a king.”

“You would know that, of course,” the king said, laughing darkly.

The woman stepped out of the shadow of the pillar next to which she had been standing. Her dark locks seemed to catch fire in the evening light, as did the pearls on her lavender gown and in her locks. The emerald in her small silver diadem lit up in the face of the sun, but it was nothing compared to the flame burning in her eyes. Even without jewellery or a crown, her features alone would have been enough to mark her as a queen, a first among her kin, one who rules and does not easily suffer being ruled in turn.

“Do you think mere shackles will be enough to tie him down? You might was well try to leash a lion with a string of cobwebs.”

The king turned around. “Are you afraid?” he asked with a slow smile.

“I do not fear for myself. I fear for my people, and for the kingdom you are wilfully driving towards its doom,” she said, her voice as hard as steel.

The king laughed again. “Ah Zimraphel, have you spent the entire time in the temples while I was gone? The priests must have muddled your thoughts with all their talk of doom, penance, and humility.” He stepped up to her to stroke her cheek, but she caught his hand.

“The priests at least are wise enough to fear those who reside above them in the natural order of things,” the queen said.

The king's eyes dropped to the queen's fingers around his wrist and he gave a low chuckle. “I think being alone in your bed at night for a few years hasn't done you any good, cousin. You have forgotten, I believe, just how strong I am.” And suddenly he started pushing against her grip. The queen tried to hold him off, but their strength was no match, and inch by inch the brought his hand closer and closer to her face.

“Let me explain to you the natural order of things,” the king said. “What I want, I take. I conquer where I please, I rule how I want. I owe no one an explanation, and I fear neither mortal nor god. The god-king of the East himself went down on his knees before me. I took his crown, I stripped him off his robes and rings, and I brought him here so that all might see the might of Ar-Pharazôn.” His fingertips stroked over her cheek, deceptively light.

“So great are you, Ar-Pharazôn,” the queen said, her face unmoved, “and so high have you risen above us mere mortals, that you mistake a crouching lion for a submissive beast instead of your imminent death. Are all signs of your greatness so easily mistaken for testimony to your blindness?”

“Your close companionship with the priests has made you hysterical,” the king scoffed. “Incense and dark prophecies and supplication – these are the last resort of apocalyptic prophets and nagging women against the rulers of the world. They prefer to wield doom-laden words rather than weapons, because their arms cannot lift a sword. Only the weak send prayers to an empty sky in the hopes that someone else might take a hold of their destiny for them. The strong have no need for temples and adoration and idolatry. If you have nothing to say aside from futile barbs and ominous warnings, I advise you to save your breath.”

“I merely know the extent of my power,” she said, “and I take care not to forget about it, whereas your practice of surrounding yourself with sycophants has given you a wrong sense of your limitations.” The king's hand wandered down her throat, but she did not flinch and held her ground, catching his hand again. “Calion,” she said – the king flinched at this name – and her voice was urgent. “He is dangerous. Heed my words, he will bring doom upon all of us, and it will begin with you.”

The king dropped his hand and looked at her with a flat, bored expression. “Is there anything else you have to say?”

“Rid yourself of him. Drown him, behead him – set him free and send him away, if you must. But do not allow him to stay.”

The king inclined his head to one side and regarded her with narrowed eyes. “Why? Are you jealous? Are you afraid that he might replace you at my side on the High Dais?” Then all of a sudden he smiled. “Or is it jealousy of another nature? He is one of the Beautiful Ones, after all, and I have heard the whispers in the court. Are you afraid that I might discard you in his favour; take him to bed instead of you?” He laughed, brief and hateful when a sudden insight seemed to come to him. “Why, of course! Women are vain and envious creatures, they suffer no rivals in beauty and in love, and they covet everything they think is theirs, hate it though they might – as soon as you threaten to take it away from them, they will fight for it with the vigour of a cat robbed of its young.”

“Believe what you wish. I have told you what I want,” the queen said. She stood tall, proud and cold, like a young birch on a winter's morning.

“Yes, yes. You are always quick to tell me what you want.” The king turned away. “Why, Zimraphel, I might just make good on my word and make him my consort – if not to humiliate him, then at least to spite you.”

“If you are so eager to bed a demon, do as you wish, my king. Who am I to forbid you to seek out the cold comfort of a snake in the night?” the queen replied. “I would just advise you to be cautious, for it only needs to bite once to be deadly.”

“He can hardly be colder and more vicious than you, cousin. He at least heeds my orders,” the king said with a sardonic smile, “which is something that can't be said of you, Zimraphel.” He looked around the hall and the throne. “You have made yourself comfortable on the throne in my absence, have you not? The taste of kingship must be enticing, but it has made you bold beyond measure and more presumptuous than your standing as my mere wife allows you to be. I think you have forgotten the natural order of things you are so fond of mentioning. Luckily, I have not forgotten about it, nor about how the proud and insolent can be broken – on the field, and between the sheets. My guest learned the first part well - perhaps one day I shall impart to him the second lesson as well. But not tonight.” He around to face her once more and his eyes were dark. “Tonight I will have you, dear cousin.”

There was a brief flicker in the queen's face, but she quickly schooled her features back into indifference. “Why, after all these years? You know as well as I do that I am barren. It was determined by the augurs long ago that I could not give you any heirs.”

The king whirled around and leaned close to her, and although she did not flinch one could see that she had to suppress the urge not to step away from him.

“This is not about an heir,” he said. “This is about power. I expect you in my chambers at nightfall. You know the consequence of refusal.” And with that he walked away, leaving her standing in the golden stripe of sunlight between the shadows of two mighty pillars, alone.

Or so it seemed.

The queen stood motionless, looking out over the city sprawling below her in the golden light and the sea beyond, glittering like topaz inlaid with diamonds. Without turning around she spoke, her voice raised, “I have been wondering about what my husband intended with chaining his prisoner to his throne instead of throwing him into the dungeons. Then again, Pharazôn always liked to flaunt the spoils of the wars he waged – and what use is a trophy when it is locked away where no one can see it?”

Silence was her only answer.

The queen waited briefly, then spoke again, “I know you have been listening, there is no need to pretend otherwise. Come out, slinker, and have at least the courtesy not to spy on me in my own palace.”

There was no answer for a few moments, then there was a faint clink of metal and a second man, who had been hiding in the deeper shadow of the pillars on the dark east side of the hall, stepped into the light. It was the king of the East, but at first glance there was nothing kingly about him now. He was plainly clad in light grey garments, his golden hair had been cut short as was the Númenorean custom to do with the prisoners they took, and there was a bronze chain around his left ankle that ran off into the darkness of the hall.

As he stepped fully into the light, however, the dethroned king took to the fiery evening light as naturally as a bird took to the air – it engulfed him, wreathed him in its flame and made him appear taller than he was. The chain seemed to melt from his ankle and the liquid white-hot iron pooled at his feet, and he stood before her, unfettered and magnificent and terrible.

The queen blinked, but she refused to be afraid, for she saw the illusion for what it was, and she did not step back. And then the glare was gone and he stood before her plain and bound once more. For a few moments, they just stood motionlessly, watching each other silently like a lion and a lioness assessing each other, trying to gauge how dangerous the other was.

At last, the prisoner bowed his head. “I apologise, my queen. I did not mean to intrude.”

The queen's face darkened. “I can suffer being humiliated and being spied upon,” she said sharply, “but I will not suffer being taken for a fool.”

“Woe unto any who try to take you for one, for your sharp mind would expose them like the magnificent sun exposes the dark, unsavoury deep places of the earth and brings their vices to the light.” The prisoner kept his eyes fixed on the floor. “I assure you I had no intention of showing disrespect against you –”

“Save your breath,” she interrupted him. “I am not so foolish as to believe in sweet words spoken with a forked tongue, Sauron. They may be able to lull the king, but you will not win me over.”

“Win you over? Are you implying we are adversaries, my queen?” he asked, seemingly surprised. “Have I done anything at all to earn your enmity in the few weeks I have been here?”

“Oh no, you have gone to exceptional lengths to appear humble and courteous,” she said, and she approached him slowly. She stopped when she stood directly in front of him, and they were almost face to face. He stood tall and proud, but so did she, and neither of them backed down.

“I know the mind of the likes of you,” the queen said, “I know your past, and I know your intentions. I will not be swayed to be your friend in Númenor, so let me declare this as an immutable fact for now and all future days to come: I am and will always be your enemy. Your intentions have never been good, and your history is one of death and ruin. Pharazôn seems to have forgotten about that, but I am not him, so do not insult me with your lies.”

Their gazes were locked. His eyes were molten gold, but hers were tempered steel and a lesser man would have cringed away from the silent fight going on between the queen and the prisoner. They stood still like statues for long moments. One time the queen frowned, as if in great distress, but she mastered herself and did not look away.

At last, the prisoner smiled, and the tension dissipated. A great battle seemed to have passed between them, but it was impossible to tell who had emerged victorious. The prisoner righted himself, standing a bit straighter and raised his eyebrows. “Very well,” he replied quietly. “You shall have nothing but truth from me, my queen.” And with a sardonic smile, he gave another little bow.

Tension went out of the queen's shoulders, as if the confirmation of her fears eased her mind rather than troubling it further. “Why have you come here?” she asked.

“Why do you think I have come here?” he returned the question, raising himself to his full height once more. His eyes were glittering with the joy of the fierce challenge posed to him by her sharp mind – of course the queen did not believe for one moment that Ar-Pharazôn had been able to take him here against his will.

“You have come to destroy us,” the queen said quietly.

“Yes.” He was smiling softly.

At those words, she turned away and did not speak for a long time. She touched her fingers to her temples, and closed her eyes. When she opened them again a shadow had fallen over her, deeper than the soft darkness of Númenorean nights, and it had nothing to do with the sun sinking below the horizon in the far western sea. She slowly walked out onto the gallery and looked out over the sea, ruby-red and blazing silver in the west. Soft footfalls and the clink of a chain came to a halt not far behind her.

“Why are you telling me this so openly?” she asked at last.

“Why not?” he replied, still smiling. “I have nothing to fear from being honest with you.”

“A bold assumption.”

“A fact,” he replied. “I can afford sincerity. Who could you tell that matters? Who would believe you? Your husband? The common folk? The priests? Maybe the latter – but from what I gathered the Faithful have only crumbling footholds here in Armenelos. Trust me, Men are little inclined to lend an ear to those who preach their doom. They are practised at closing their eyes to their own weaknesses, and thus they become blind to warnings as well.” He watched her carefully. “Besides, I told you that you shall have nothing but truth from me, my queen. I make neither my threats nor my promises idly.”

She stepped closer to him, her back a firm straight line, her hands clasped together, and her gaze hard. She was the very image of a fortress, every limb, every muscle, every bone of her body another piece of a delicate, yet immeasurably strong defensive structure, all parts supporting each other and coming together to form a nearly impenetrable wall of will and defiance. “You must be aware that your words do nothing to discourage me. I will do everything in my power to stop you.”

“I expected no less of you,” he said and he did not sound angry. If anything, he appeared to be pleased. “I appreciate nothing more than a worthy adversary, my queen. Your resistance is made no less admirable by the fact that your endeavour will fail, no matter how hard you try.”

She raised her eyebrows and her gaze dropped to his ankles where the chain extended back into the darkness of the throne hall. It was taut – this was as far as he could go. “It seems to me that your reach is not yet great enough to support such grand claims,” she said.

He smiled. “Think of it as a grace period where you step on the playing field a few weeks before I do. Rally your supporters, warn those who will heed your words, gather your friends around you. I will not interfere. Make good use of the time. You will need it.”

“You are overestimating your advantages,” the queen said and she raised her chin higher, her eyes blazing. “Not all here are as corruptible as the usurper. I am your opponent, and I have the Faithful behind me. Our wills are strong and not even death will make our determination falter. Not without resistance shall Númenor fall!”

“Good.” His smile widened. “I have always relished a challenge.”

You stir in your sleep, restless, agitated, and roll over onto your other side.

Now, Sméagol, the Precious says, don't get too excited. I know it is marvellous to behold two masters at work, but you should leave it to them to play the game with an open hand. You'll have to go about it differently; clumsier, cruder, less elegant – but no matter. We will prevail all the same. We will have the Precious back from them.

Nasty hobbitses, you think.

Yes, nasty. They'll get their due before long; just do what I tell you to do when the moment to strike has arrived. In the meantime be nice, Sméagol. The rest will come in its own time.

You whimper in your sleep, struggling to the surface of waking, but the dreams are clinging to you and dragging you back under again. You fight it – you always do, but the pressure of the Precious is weighing on your mind like an ocean, and the deeper you sink the harder it is to struggle upward. In the end, you give up. You are pulled back down into an abyss of fire, smoke, and cruel metal wheels, turning endlessly, grinding everything between them to dust.