“Shire!” came the shriek, finally. “Bagginsss!”

With those two words, the torturing ceased. The confusion around his small frame increased, but he hardly noticed. Orcs scrambled around him, uncertain of exactly what to do. He hardly cared for the chaos around him. His pain had lessened and was dimming slightly. Slowly, his arms and legs, which had been cruelly stretched, started to feel normal. The old aches in his bones, aggravated by the ceaseless torture, started to decrease into a manageable level. His back, scarred with old and fresh lashes from a whip, tightened in pain. It was the only pain that did not diminish. He did not care about the pain; it held him to the world. The world where the Ring was somewhere.

Hatred boiled within him. “Bagginsss,” he hissed, seething through his pain. Somewhere above him, orcs shouted orders. The chains holding his hands and feet were suddenly loosened. Limp and weak, he was dragged away from the torture chamber. He was thrown into some cell, deep within the fortress. Time passed. It could have been hours or mere minutes, he didn’t care. Time had no meaning. Time…

Echoes from long ago crept into his knowledge.

“This thing all things devours: Birds, beasts, trees, flowers; Gnaws iron, bites steel; Grinds hard stones to meal; Slays king, ruins town, And beats high mountain down.”

And the Baggins had answered “Time! Time!”

“Bagginsss… we hates it! Yesss…” he hissed to the darkness. Darkness… Another memory surfaced, older, far older than even the Baggins was.

“It cannot be seen, cannot be felt, Cannot be herd, cannot be smelt. It lies behind stars and under hills, And empty holes it fills. It comes first and follows after, Ends life, kills laughter,”

The memory chanted evenly. A voice, so familiar, so kind and caring. He knew who that voice belonged to. And to his friend’s challenge, he had answered: “Darkness, it is!”

The wretched being curled into himself, trying to shut out the memories that suddenly started to flood over him. “No, no… Déagol, ” he started to moan. “No… we hates that!” Sobbing in the dark began as the memory started to take shape.

***

“Sméagol! Sméagol, come quick!”

He looked up from the small pond he was looking into curiously. A frightened feeling filled Sméagol’s heart at the sound of his friend’s cry. “Déagol,” he whispered. Afraid his friend was in some kind of trouble, Sméagol ran. “Déagol! I’m coming!” He ran as fast as his legs could carry him. Quickly, he brushed away branches and leaves that whipped at his face. Only once did he stop, when a spider’s web clung to his face. Disgusted, he wiped the clinging slime off his face. Once it was gone, he continued to run towards where he had heard his friend’s voice. Suddenly he was faced with a wall of branches and leaves. His friend’s voice had come from behind these bushes, he was certain, but how to get through them? His face hardened and he braced himself. He charged the bushes, breaking through the slim branches with more ease than he had counted on and almost tripped over his friend.

Déagol was lying on his back, watching the clouds, innocent of the fear he had caused his friend. “Sméagol,” he started, still not realizing how worried his older friend had been. “I thought of one.”

For a moment Sméagol was confused. “Oh!” Sméagol said, finally figuring his friend’s statement out. “The game!”

“Yes, the game, Sméagol. Did you think I meant something else?”

Sméagol shrugged off the question, his heart calming from his scare.

“Voiceless it cries, “Wingless flutters, “Toothless bits, “Mouthless mutters,” Déagol chanted evenly.

Sméagol, fear forgotten, started to think hard. He loved riddles, almost as much as Déagol loved them. Long and hard, he thought, Déagol patiently waiting for an answer. Above him the trees whistled and moaned as they bent in the breeze. A smile crept over Sméagol’s features. “Wind, it is! Winds!”

“Yes, yes!” Déagol answered his friend. “Now you think of one!”

Different things flitted through his mind. Then, his mind alighted on something he enjoyed. Now, just to form it into a riddle…

“It is a boxes, no hinges does it have, “No key to lock, does not have lid. “Inside golden treasure is hid,” he chanted in the same monotonic voice Déagol had used. Perhaps this would stump his friend!

It seemed to have worked. Déagol sat and thought and thought. Time passed and Sméagol waited. And waited some more. Until it seemed that Déagol would think forever. “Well?” Sméagol asked. “Do you know its?”

“Half moment, Sméagol! Wait! I gave you a long turn to think!” Déagol’s brow furrowed as he thought long and hard. Sméagol started to shift impatiently. “Eggs!”

“Yes!!!” Sméagol cried happily. “Your turn.”

Déagol hardly had to think. “What has roots as nobody sees, “Is taller than trees “Up, up it goes, “And yet never grows?”

Sméagol thought for a moment, then chose the most likely answer to his mind. “Mountains, it is!”

“Of course!”

“Mountains… What’s under them, I wonders?” Sméagol asked, his mind drifting to the curiosity that so often got him into trouble.

Déagol sighed at his friend’s thoughts. “Roots, as I said. Your turn, Sméagol!”

“Alive without breath, “As cold as death; “Never thirsty, ever drinking, “All in mail never clinking,” came Sméagol’s chanting riddle. But for poor Déagol, it was a difficult question. He had little idea of what it could be and had very little love for water, even to drink.

“S’ not trees…” he muttered.

“Nope!”

“S’ not ground?”

“Nope!”

“S’ it… oh! The dead men of the marsh far away!” Déagol cried triumphantly. The dead men of the marsh in the Dead Marshes were legends. Some said that they lived under the water of the marsh, breathing the water and luring travellers to their watery graves.

“Oh…” Sméagol muttered, shuddering in fear. “No… nots them!”

Déagol’s face fell. He felt that was such a clever answer and was proud of himself for remembering the tale of the Dead Marshes. Those dead men, breathing the water… Déagol’s face lit up. “I know it! Fishes!”

“Yes!” Sméagol cried just as thunder rolled overhead. The two friends looked at each other. “Time to go!”

“Yes, Sméagol. We need to go home!” Déagol shivered. He did not like water at all.

Sméagol sensed his friend’s discomfiture and tugged on his hand. “Let’s go, then!” They started off together through the trees towards their homes. “Tomorrow, let’s go fishing! You’ll like it, Déagol.”

***

“NOOO!!!”

The tormented voice cried out through the corridors beneath the torture chambers of Mordor. Sobs echoed a thousand fold through the chambers. Orcs stopped to listen, frightened of such a wretched, poignant sound that had never been heard in Mordor before.

“No,” the pitiful creature sobbed. “Don’t do it, Sméagol, not the river!” The sobs increased in volume and wretchedness, dry and wracking. Slowly, ever so slowly, the weeping became more soft and almost caring. “Not Déagol, no. Not Déagol.” And had anyone been there to see it, they would have seen heartfelt tears course down the creature’s face. “No, Déagol! Not Déagol… Déagol!” The cry pierced the stone surrounding him just as it pierced his own heart.

But the recollection of what had triggered his memory came back to him and something returned to him; a fury that had kept him alive for so long. The sobs lessened until nothing remained of the creature’s weakness. Tears had vanished and anger replaced the genuine sorrow.

“Bagginsss…” Gollum muttered. “We hates it!”