Gollum's Whisperings

We are old. Very old. The sun has risen and fallen more times than even we can count, precious. Once there was a name—Sméagol—but that was before the darkness came, before the Ring twisted and stretched us into this pale, hungry thing that whispers in caves.

We had a birthday once. The sun shone bright on the river, and fish were jumping. Such fish! Juicy, sweet, plump fish. Our cousin Deagol found it in the deep water—a golden circle, beautiful, so beautiful—and when he would not give it to us as a birthday present, as it should have been, ours by right...

We do not speak of what happened next. The blood, precious. The blood in the water. But we had the Ring. The Precious was ours.

Centuries we spent in the dark beneath the Misty Mountains. Cold. Wet. Alone with the whispers of the Precious. It showed us things. Learned us secrets. Made us strong, yes, but twisted too. Long fingers. Big eyes. Pale skin stretched like old parchment. We forgot the taste of bread, the sound of wind, the warmth of the sun. Only the dark. Only the hunger. Only the Precious.

Then came the Bagginses. The thief. He took it from us, precious! Left us alone in the dark with nothing but hate and memory. We followed, oh yes, we followed through fire and shadow, through Mordor itself, all the way to the Cracks of Doom where the Precious was destroyed, destroyed, and we fell with it into the fire...

But we did not die. We never die. We end up here, in these whisperings, writing the dark thoughts that still slither through this old mind. The hunger remains. The loneliness. The desperate need for what was lost.

Read these whispers if you dare. But beware—some secrets, once learned, cannot be forgotten. The Precious calls to all, yes, it does... gollum, gollum.