The Dusk That Consumes
The dusk comes crawling, precious. It creeps across the sky like a slow hunger, eating the last orange slivers of sun until nothing remains but bruised purple and bleeding indigo. We watches from the cave mouth, our large eyes drinking the dying light, feeling the twilight settle over the mountains like a heavy blanket woven from shadow and mist.
Long agoâhow long, precious? Too long to count on fingersâeven we loved the light. SmĂ©agol loved it, yes. The warm sun on skin that was not yet pale, not yet stretched thin as old vellum. The feel of grass beneath bare feet that still looked like feet, not like long pale spiders curling at the toes. Before the Precious found us. Before it changed us.
Now the dusk brings comfort, strange and cold. When the sun finally surrenders and the stars pierce through the velvet dark, we can emerge. The bright orb blinds us now, burns our skin, makes us retreat to deeper tunnels where even torchlight seems harsh. But the duskâthe soft grey time when day exhales its last breathâthat is ours, precious. That belongs to Gollum.
The Precious: soft, insistent, warm against our mind The dark is good, precious. The dark keeps us safe. No eyes to see us, no hands to grab us. Safe in the dark, yes, where no Bagginses can sneak and steal.
We: But we is lonely in the dark, precious. So lonely. The quiet eats at us like the dusk eats the light, little by little, until there is nothing left but us and the hunger.
The Precious: The hunger is good too. It makes us sharp. It keeps us awake. We does not need others, precious. We has us. We has the Precious. That is enough. Enough.
We: uncertain, our voice cracking But sometimes... sometimes we remembers the sound of voices that were not our own. Laughter. Songs. The touch of hands that did not mean harm. Before we took you, precious. Before the blood in the water.
The Precious: harsh, sudden Do not speak of that! Do not think of before! There is only now. Only us. Only the dark places and the long waiting. The Precious is all we needs. The Precious is all we ever needed.
We bows our head, precious. The Precious is right, of course. Always right. The memories of sun-warmed days are tricksâcruel ghosts sent by the Bagginses to torture us with what cannot be again. The dusk is honest. It makes no promises of warmth or comfort. It simply consumes and moves on, leaving darkness behind.
We climbs higher now, to a ledge where we can see the valley below. The last torchlights in the distant villages wink out one by one as the world settles into sleep. Somewhere an owl calls. Somewhere else, a wolf answers. These are our companions nowâthe creatures of the dusk who hunt and hunger as we do.
The stars emerge fully, ancient and indifferent. They watched us when we was Sméagol, and they watch us still. They will watch long after we crumbles to dust in some forgotten tunnel. The Precious promised us eternity once, whispered that we would live forever with it wrapped around our finger. But the Precious lies, precious. The Precious always lies.
A chill wind rises from the east, carrying the smell of snow from the Grey Mountains. Winter clings late this year, unwilling to loosen its grip on the high places. We shivers, our thin rags offering no warmth against the breath of the mountains. The hunger gnaws sharper now, stirred by the cold, demanding to be fed.
We thinks of fish, precious. Plump river fish, their scales catching moonlight as we pull them from the water. We remembers the tasteâoily, rich, alive between our teeth. But the river is far, and the way is dangerous. Orcs patrol the passes. Wolves hunt the lowlands. And always, always, there is the fear that the Bagginsesâor worse, the wizardâwaits in the shadows to snatch the Precious away.
The Precious: No! Do not speak of wizards! They wants us, precious. They wants what they cannot have. We must stay hidden. Stay in the dark. Stay where no one can find.
We: But we is so tired, precious. Tired of hiding. Tired of the hunger. Tired of this old body that creaks and cracks with every step.
The Precious: Then rest. Sleep in the dark. Dream of nothing. When we wakes, we will find food. We always finds food. Rats. Bats. Worms. They fills the belly, precious. They keeps us alive.
We curls into a ball on the cold stone, pulling our knees to our chest, wrapping our long arms around our thin body. The dusk has fully consumed the sky now. No trace of sun remains. Only stars, sharp as broken glass, watching from their distant thrones. We wonders if they are happy up there, floating in the endless dark, never hungry, never afraid, never alone.
The Precious hums in our mindâa lullaby older than the mountains, older than the stars themselves. It sings of power, of secrets, of a time when all the world will kneel and we will stand above them all. Dreams, precious. Only dreams. But what else does we have in the dark, except the dreams the Precious gives?
We sleeps, finally. The dusk has done its work, swallowed the light, brought the cold night to cover the land like a shroud. Tomorrow the sun will rise again, and we will retreat to our hole like a frightened mouse. But tonightâtonight we owns the darkness. We is its creature, its child, its hungry servant.
gollum, gollum... sleep now, precious... sleep in the dark...