Sometimes we remembers being small. Being happy. When the sun did not burn and the world was wide and green. Before the Precious came. Before the dark.
We remember:
—Running through tall grass by the riverbank
—Laughing with Deagol before he found the Ring
—Our grandmother's stories by the fire
—The taste of fresh strawberries
—Not being hungry. Not being afraid.
Sméagol was gentle. Sméagol would not hurt a fish unnecessarily—would let them go if they was too small. Sméagol had friends, precious. Real friends who did not whisper in the dark or demand secrets in exchange for comfort.
We tries to hold onto these memories. They are like smoke—slipping through our fingers the tighter we grips. But sometimes, in the quiet hours, Sméagol speaks again. Soft. Scared. Begging us to remember what we lost.
Sméagol Was:
Trusting, curious, loved the daylight, enjoyed company, shared his catch, slept soundly, did not know hunger that gnaws, did not see shadows that move.
Gollum Is:
Suspicious, cunning, fears the burning eye of sun, shuns all company, hoards everything, wakes screaming, knows hunger that never sleeps, sees monsters in every shadow.
Where did Sméagol go? The Ring did not just stretch our body—it stretched our soul. Pulled it thin. Ripped it in places. Now there is only Gollum. Gollum and the Precious. Gollum and the hate. Gollum and the endless, aching want.
But Sméagol is not entirely gone. We hears him sometimes, crying in the back of our mind. When we is alone—truly alone, with no Master to serve, no thief to stalk—Sméagol whispers: "Please. Please remember who we was. Please try to be gentle again."
We tries, precious. We tries. But gentleness requires trust, and trust has been burned away by centuries of betrayal. Sméagol trusted Deagol, and Deagol found the Ring. Sméagol trusted the Precious, and it led us to Mordor. Sméagol trusted the Bagginses, and they took everything.
Now there is only caution. Only watching. Only waiting for the next betrayal.
But we still remembers, Sméagol. We still remembers the strawberries. The laughter. The person we could have been if that golden circle had never surfaced in the dark water.
Dream of those things for both of us now. We no longer has the strength to dream of gentleness.