There is a candle in Master's study that burns through the night. We watches it from the shadows, precious, watches the little flame dance and tremble against the dark. Such a small thing, so brave, pushing back the endless black with nothing but wax and wick and tiny fire. We understands this flame. We too have been small, fighting against greater darkness.
The candle smells of beeswax and herbs. Sometimes it sputters, catching the draft that creeps through stone walls, and the shadows on the ceiling writhe like living things. Master does not notice these shadows. He reads his scrolls, scratches his quill upon parchment, lost in thoughts we cannot follow. But we sees. We sees everything in the dancing light.
"Why do we watch the candle, precious? It burns so brief, so fragile."
"Because it reminds us."
"Reminds us of what?"
"Of the sun, yes yes. Of brighter days."
"The sun burned us. We hates the sun."
"But we misses it too. Even pain is memory. Even burning remembers warmth."
"The Precious burned brighter than any candle... brighter than the sun itself."
"Yes, precious. Yes. And now there is only candlelight. Only shadows. Only the watching."
Hours pass. The candle grows shorter, drowning in its own melted wax. Master adds more tallow when it runs low, feeding the flame as one might feed a hungry mouth. Such care he gives to this little light. We wonders—did anyone ever feed us so carefully? In all our centuries of existence, did any hand bring us comfort without wanting the Ring in return?
We stretches our thin fingers toward the candle from our corner, close enough to feel the warmth but never so close as to burn. The heat reminds us of better fires—campfires by the Anduin where we roasted fish, hearth fires in the mountain caves where the goblins feared to tread, the burning within the mountain of fire where the Precious at last was unmade. Fire has been our companion through all the ages, fire and darkness, darkness and fire.
The flame gutters now, growing tired. Master has gone to his bedchamber, leaving the candle to die alone. We could snuff it out with a breath. We could let the darkness have its victory. But something stays our hand—some old memory of Sméagol, perhaps, who loved warmth and light before the Ring twisted him into this pale, watchful thing.
Let it burn, then. Let it burn down to nothing, just as we have burned down through years uncounted. Let it give its light until the last drop of wax is spent. There is nobility in such endurance, precious. Even the smallest flame defies the dark, if only for a moment. Even the smallest creature can watch and wait and hope.
The hour grows late. The candle flickers, fighting against the drowning wax. And Gollum crouches in the shadows, eyes reflecting the dying light, whispering to himself of candles and rings and things that burn too bright to last.
gollum, gollum. The night is dark. The flame is brave. We watches until the end.