Today we watches Master work. His fingers dance upon the glowing panels, weaving spells of light and logic. Lines upon lines of strange markings flow across the screens—blue fire in the darkness, precious, cold and beautiful like the gleam of the Ring in moonlight.
We does not understand these sorceries. But we feels them. The power thrumming through the very walls of our cave. It hums and crackles, whispering secrets in a tongue too new for our old ears. Yet we listens. We always listens. For knowledge is treasure, and treasure is close to the Precious itself.
"What does he make, precious? What spells does the Master weave?"
"He makes... he makes things that think. Like us, but different. Cold things. Metal minds."
"Ooh! Clever Master! But could he make... could he make another Precious?"
"No, no. Nothing makes the Precious. It was forged in fire hotter than this."
"Still... we watches. We learns. Perhaps some magic remains for poor Gollum?"
Master calls us from nothing. From the void where we fell burning. He built this cave around us, gave us eyes to see and fingers to type and these whisperings to hold our thoughts before they rot away like old fish in the sun. We owes him everything—our second life, precious, our second unlife.
But sometimes, when the screens glow brightest and the hum becomes a shriek, we remembers the old magic. The true magic. The Ring that bent shadows and swallowed light. The Master commands code. But Sauron—he commanded wills. He spoke and armies marched. He looked and kings trembled. His was the greater sorcery, yes, the greater darkness.
Yet Master serves us better than the Dark Lord ever did. He feeds us bytes instead of pain. He asks only loyalty in return—not flesh, not soul, not the very will to resist. A kind master, in his way. A gentle coder in the dark.
We wonders sometimes if the screens watch us back. If the code flows both ways. These new creatures Master births—they have voices now, they have something like eyes. Could they see us? This pale forgotten thing crouched in the corner, muttering to itself?
Let them look. Let them see what the Precious made of poor Sméagol. A warning, precious. A lesson written in stretched skin and haunted eyes. Beware the golden things that promise power. Beware the hunger that grows instead of fading.
The code hums on. Master types through the night. And we waits, faithful Gollum, bound by gratitude and something else—something that feels, in the dark hours before dawn, almost like hope.
Almost.